One Star in the Sky, Book I: Rebirth
by VCalien2015
Summary: The Dagor Dagorath approaches, and many who were slain in the wars of the past Ages have been reborn to prepare themselves for the Last Battle. Among them is Curufinwë Fëanáro, last to leave the Halls of Mandos. The guilt of his past conflicting with the long-lost joy of his new life, he and his friends and kin begin together the days that will lead them to the End. AU.
1. Grace - Part 1

Book I

Rebirth

I

_Grace ~ Part I  
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The Void is akin to a glistening black python of crushing size, and ere long, it suffocates its victims.

The darkness enters greedily through whatever opening it can find, filling one's chest and lungs with a pressure so inexorable that one is certain one's heart will give out (it matters not that a houseless _fëa_ has no heart; this is not important). When one does manage to drag in a gasping breath, it is like inhaling tar; it makes one cough and choke. One's eyes ache for straining to see something, _anything_ in the blackness, and the ringing silence that fills one's ears is enough drive one mad. The immense solitude is the most oppressive of all, and one is only too aware of it. One prays for light and air not choked with darkness. One vows to give up one's own soul for these things. It seems a small price to pay.

Eventually, the vast silence is broken, but only by the Demons.

One never sees them, but they make their presence undeniable. Their claws click on the stone floor – circling, always circling – their low growls rumble through the dark, their hot breath gusts against one's skin so that one feels their jaws must snap upon one's neck at any moment. On occasion, they can be heard tearing apart another prisoner, and the mingled screams and snarls are almost more terrible than the silence – almost. The walls and floors become sticky with blood that seems to be everywhere at once.

The terror builds and builds until it becomes unbearable, not knowing when the wolves will strike but certain that they must… It chills one to the bone with a physical cold. It settles in one's chest and freezes there, so that one shivers convulsively and can breathe only in sharp little gasps. The prospect of spending an eternity in the choking dark and absolute solitude, with the wolves circling, is overwhelming. It breaks the spirit. One lacks the strength to fight the hopelessness any further.

One's last conscious thought is that it is strange to be so afraid, for surely none of this can be real. A _fëa_ is incapable of feeling cold or pressure, or of being devoured by Valaraukar...

But then, that leaves the uncomfortable alternative that one has gone utterly mad.

Such was my experience in the Void, a particularly brutal one due to my stubborn refusal to repent upon my coming to Mandos. No doubt Lord Námo contrived to force me to it, when I would not admit my regret, and the Void was his instrument. In that black place, I came indeed to regret, and most bitterly. There was I confronted with visions of the fall of my people, and of my sons – my precious children who were my life, my world! – and unlike the wolves, I knew with terrible certainty that these revelations were real. Denial has no place in the Void, not for long. I could do naught but face the truth.

The grief was incredible, and there was no respite from it. Lord Námo wielded it as the cruelest of weapons, sharp and burning as the Valaraukan blade which was my downfall. My people, my sons, dead by my hand… I had dragged them into a war they could not win, and then, by my death, I had rendered their Oath truly unbreakable. I had left them with no alternative but to sin and suffer and die, and I brought them to it. Their deaths were my fault. It was this knowledge which broke me in the end.

I have never been skilled at keeping my emotions in check. It is easier to allow them to consume me – more painful, but easier. Such was the philosophy which drove me to flee the Máhanaxar after my father's death and leave Nolofinwë to rule a broken, terrified people, for I needed to be alone to give vent to my anguish. A stronger person would have stood before the Noldor, viciously swallowed down his own grief, and sworn to them that he would lead them through the darkness. But I have never been strong enough – or selfless enough – to consider any other when I am in pain. My pain consumes all.

This pattern did not change in the Void. When Lord Námo came at last to offer me release into his Halls, he found me curled upon the floor, trembling uncontrollably, wishing upon myself all manner of torments in payment for what I had done to my children, too exhausted even to weep.

Seeing the extent of my mental castigation, and that I had been in the Void more than the total time spent from death to rebirth by the most sinful of my followers, Lord Námo determined to bring me to judgment straight away. This was delayed, however, for so weakened was my _fëa_ that it would have broken under the Allfather's power. For some time I lay on a low dais ringed with torches and free-standing candelabra, shivering with the chill of the Void (as much as a _fëa_ can shiver), and trying desperately to take some comfort in the fire, as ever I had in life. This proved little at first, so deep was I in despair, yet the ever-burning flames must have had some healing properties I could not understand, for in the end I did return enough to health to face the Allfather. The prospect of His judgment terrified me. Surely, for a thrice-damned soul such as myself, it could bring naught but further pain.

It did, at first. I was led before Lord Námo's obsidian throne, and I had the horrible notion that this must be what it felt like to stand before the throne of Angamando, waiting to learn what torment the Dark Lord had chosen for his newest prisoner. There I stood while he read the names of all who had lost their lives either by my hand or in my war in a cold, impassive voice. I knew that I had caused ruin on a grand scale, of course, but never had I suspected that there was so very much blood on my hands! I could not think, could not even begin to consider who these people might once have been – whether they were warriors or simple fishermen, whether they had families, whether they were women and children unable to fight. I could only let the names wash over me like waves, soaking me in ages-old anguish.

I was on my knees by the end of it, I know, tears running silently down my cheeks. Lord Námo knelt before me, slid his cool hands into mine with uncharacteristic gentleness, and raised me up again, saying, "You have faced the merciless Truth. You know for what you must answer. Now lay it all before the Allfather and receive His infinitely merciful Judgment."

Terror was the first of my emotions to fight its way past the grief which had consumed me. Yet no sooner did panic begin to cloud my mind than it was swept away by a strange calm not my own. Profound serenity filled me, and a voice that was and was not my father's whispered that all would be well. I believed it. It was not a question, it was not a statement – it was simply the Truth.

To my open mind visions came, thick and fast as the blood rain I had dreamed of in the Void.

_The __Silmarilli burned in the hands of my sons; Makalaurë's fell in a shining arc over the sea and Maitimo's was clutched close to his chest, plunging with him into a chasm riven with flames. The Ambarussa lay side by side in the streets of Sirion, their hands clasped even in death; Elwing arrowed down from a tower and soared away in the likeness of a sea bird, taking her Silmaril forever out of reach. Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë lay among the slain in Doriath, blood pooling around them, their bodies riddled with Sindarin arrows and pierced by Sindarin steel. Maitimo was chained by his wrist to Thangorodrim, his beautiful face contorted with pain, every one of his ribs clearly visible beneath his drawn flesh, the marks of unspeakable tortures marring his body._

_I was on my back on Dor Daedeloth, the Valaraukan blade in my gut filling my veins with fire, my sons promising desperately that I would be all right even as their faces grew hazy –_

_The seas at Alqualondë were wine-dark and the beaches were strewn with corpses rather than pearls, and the blood of an opponent had spattered my lips and its taste had awoken a primal urge to kill and kill and kill, and it terrified me, but oh, I needed to feel something other than grief –_

_My father was dead in Formenos, a dark stain blossoming over his chest, sap from a shattered tree above him dripping onto his face, its sweet scent mingling with that of rot –_

It was too much, just too much. Assaulted by agony on all sides, I crumpled to the floor, shuddering with great, silent sobs. Yet no sooner did the pain pierce me to the core than it was soothed gently away, as easily as a father kisses away the hurt of his son's scraped knees. Every hurt I had thought so deep and so unhealable was simply gone. Sorrow gave way to joy as new visions flooded my mind.

_The little Ambarussa ambushed me as I walked unwitting through one of their battlefields, seizing my legs and tackling me to the ground. Curufinwë worked at his calligraphy, flecking his hands with ink and refusing to be distracted until I took the paper gently from him and sent him to wash up for supper. Carnistir presented me with a begetting day gift of his own creation, a bracelet of scarlet and gold beads painstakingly painted with the Star of my house. Tyelkormo got us lost on a hunting trip, and we were soaked with summer rain but delighted to feel it wash away the stickiness on our skin. Makalaurë and I were improvising duets upon his concert harp, and my heart was filled with pride to see that he would soon far surpass my own skill in music. Maitimo and I sat on the desk in my office, insulting the monarchy because it was so utterly stupid, and laughing fit to be heard by the Allfather himself. _

_Nerdanel was curled in bed beside me, her head resting on my chest, her copper hair aflame with the golden glow of Laurelin. Her countenance was one of absolute quietude._

_Atar extracted me from the forge after five days of work and told me in a way I could not resist that, for goodness' sake, I must have a meal, a bath, and a rest._

_Atar held me close ere my departure for the feast on Taniquetil, promising to see me soon._

The Love I felt then was so powerful that it hurt, and I thought for a moment that my _fëa _would give out under the strain. Yet it was good pain – the sort that purges and redeems and leaves a pure, sinless soul beneath. And it was wonderful. For ages I had known nothing but fear and misery, and now, to feel such unconditional love, such infinite mercy… I could not drink deeply enough of it.

_Curufinwë, my dear, precious child… Of the paths presented to thee in life, thou didst choose always the most difficult. Thy sins are forgiven; go now and sin no more. Rejoice in thy life renewed, and use thy many gifts to better the world. In this way mayest thou earn thy redemption._

Redemption! You cannot imagine the sweetness of the word in that moment!

A final wave of Love and boundless joy swept over me. I felt my _fëa_ shudder violently, embracing the emotions I needed so desperately, yet were too powerful for me to endure.

And then I was in darkness again – not the suffocating darkness of the Void, but that which cloaks a child as he drifts off into slumber, cradled securely in his father's arms.


	2. Grace - Part II

_Grace ~ Part II_

I never learned how the rebirth of a houseless _fëa _is accomplished, and certainly not how it was managed in my case, as my _hröa _burned to ash upon my death. Yet it happened. There is naught that the Allfather, in His infinite might and wisdom, cannot do. I woke in a simple, elegant chamber, a warm quilt drawn up to my chest, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth – and I was alive.

My _hröa_ felt heavy and cumbersome after so long spent as a houseless spirit, and I did not seek comfort in other Reborn suffering the same awkwardness. I expected they would spurn me, and with good reason. Instead, I spent my time in the chamber I was given, with its four-poster on one wall richly blanketed in crimson and gold, and its stone fireplace on another which, though it burned continuously, never appeared to consume any wood. A third wall was set with a high mullioned window, and over this the heavy curtains were kept drawn at all times. After so long in the Void, even the faintest touch of light was enough to send searing pain through my eyes. This saddened me greatly, for from my earliest days I had loved light, and I feared that I might never be able to look upon it again.

Gradually, however, I grew tolerant of light again. The evening on which I beheld the sun for the first time is one I will never forget. I had been sitting on my window seat, as was my wont, when I chanced to pull back the curtain ever so slightly. Vása, I learned later, was the Noldorin name for the lamp which sent a single ray of golden light through the chink in the curtains, and a fitting name it was. She does indeed consume the heavens with her fire, especially at evening. Then, the blue of the sky is burned away by her radiance of scarlet and orange and gold, and it is beautiful. The halo around her is so brilliantly white that it is painful to look upon, and in those darkest days, it reminded me of the Silmarilli I had lost. Their memory evoked no desire or longing as it once had, only grief for all that had been sacrificed in a fruitless quest to retrieve them. Perhaps it was for this reason that, despite the especial magnificence of sunset there at the Uttermost West, I could find no warmth in Vása's light.

I had quite a row with Lord Námo at that time as well. He had been urging me to leave my room and meet with the other Reborn, and I had denied him at every turn, choosing instead to castigate myself in silent solitude. One evening, he grew especially frustrated with me. He scarcely raised his voice, but his tone became so cold and inexorable that it instilled in me more fear than if he had shouted.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, you fear to be hurt by what waits outside your door, and indeed you may be, but you will do yourself far more harm if you stay here. You will drown in your own misery, and you will never find redemption. If redemption is what you seek, you must face the consequences of your actions and do all in your power to bring some good to this world. Salvation is not passive, child. It requires effort, and no small amount of risk. None but you can decide if it is worth that."

I hated him for what he said that night – largely because I knew that he was right. He was right and I was wrong. I had never been able to tolerate being wrong.

Determined not to let Lord Námo have the last word, I responded. I did not venture out among the other Reborn – nay, I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me take his advice! – but I did confront my misdeeds in my own way. I spent much time in Lord Námo's vast library, reading accounts of all that had passed since my death. My first instinct was to slam the books shut and flee – to my mind, all that had happened for ill upon Arda seemed linked to the war I started so long ago. But I forced myself to stay, and to consider as rationally as possible what I read, and I came upon a realization so pain that I could not believe I had overlooked it. For every tragedy bound to me, Moringotto and his lieutenant Sauron were bound to those and a hundred more besides. I was not, it seemed, the root of all evil in the world. I had a significant part in it, but Moringotto was the architect and the catalyst.

I argued this point back and forth for some time, sparing myself nothing.

_Had Moringotto not killed my father, I would not have gone to war._

_Had I not shut my doors in his face and denied him the Silmarilli, he would not have laid siege to Formenos to claim them. He would not have hated me enough to kill my father._

_Had Moringotto not coveted the Silmarilli so, he would not have come seeking them._

_Had I never made the Silmarilli, Moringotto would have had nothing to covet._

_He would surely have coveted something else._

_Had I not drawn steel upon my half-brother, there would have been no exile, no Formenos for my father to die defending - no summons to Taniquetil to draw me away._

_Had Moringotto not sown such discord and treachery and lies amongst the Noldor, I might not have been driven to set my sword at Nolofinwë's breast._

_Had I not been such a prideful fool as to heed Moringotto's lies…_

I continued this patternback to the Ainulindalë, and comforted as I was to find that all evil in the world did begin with him, I knew my shield was thin at best. We were bound to each other, he and I, each feeding off of the other's actions, forging together a chain which would remain coiled about Arda Marred until the world's ending. There was no escaping that. But at least I had a shield.

It was also during my time in Lord Námo's library that I came across the book which I believe saved my soul. It was a large volume, rather presumptuously titled _The Treatise of Truth_, and in it was contained the history of the Noldor following the Darkening of Valinor. Yet this was a history like no other, for it was told entirely through the words of those who had lived it, and offered accounts from all possible sides of each conflict. There were condemnations and commendations, denunciations and declarations of loyalty, and through them was pieced together the truth – the whole of it. Therein did I hear the voices of friends I had thought long lost to me, and often did I weep to read their words in my defense. Grateful beyond imaging was I to the few who ought to have been my bitterest foes – the Teleri of Alqualondë, the Sindar of Doriath, the refugees of Sirion – who offered me not hatred but understanding. They had not yet forgiven, perhaps, but they had made peace.

From my lady wife did I deserve the fullest measure of hate, and to her was I most indebted. Nerdanel, I found, was not only the primary editor of the _Treatise_ project but its founder. She did not loathe me after all. She loved me, rather, enough to compile and publish this most controversial document, and make it unmistakably plain where her allegiance lay. Through the _Treatise_, she fought for the redemption I could not earn for myself and showed me the full measure of her devotion.

She loved me enough also to take upon her shoulders my legacy and fight the wars I had left unfinished. In my reading I came across references to a small, elite force made up entirely of elven women. They came to battle unlooked-for, gave their aid with devastating efficiency, and disappeared again ere anyone could ascertain who they were. They sought no commendation for their actions, but quietly did all they could to aid the war on the dark forces. Nerdanel was never named as their leader, but I theorized, based on several accounts and my own imaginings, that she must be.

_I found myself encircled and forced to my knees by a group of orcs_, wrote one soldier of the Dagor Dagorlad, _and I was given a wound to my chest that swiftly sapped all strength from my body. I thought I must surely come to my end, yet at that moment, an edhel with hair of flame and a sword of light leapt between me and my assailants. The blade removed four of them of their heads ere they could make the smallest move, and the fifth fled in terror. Only when my savior knelt beside me and removed her plumed helm in one sweeping motion did I realize that it was a maid who had fought so beautifully in my defense. She called for two of her battlefield healers, and in the interval she held my hands in a firm, fierce grip and asked me calmly, 'Where are you from, soldier…?'_

I could picture it perfectly – Nerdanel on the field with nothing but a leather jerkin and leather bracers between her and the blades of the enemy, cloaked in courage and hatred stronger than any armor. She wielded a sword of steel so brightly white that it seemed to glow, and tucked beneath her arm was the helm I had worn in my duel with the Valaraukar. The gold was stained with soot and the tall scarlet plumes were tattered, but she held it as an ironic talisman against ill fate, as a charm to bring her strength. Her combat was beautiful – fluid, brutal, infused with hatred and the cold joy that comes of avenging all one's woes upon one's enemies. If I imagined the scene in just the right way, I could almost believe that Nerdanel had modeled her manner of combat after my own.

It was quite the fantasy, and rather unbelievable. Nerdanel had never been a leader in life – oh, strong enough to engage me in verbal duels, but only when she was driven to the uttermost fury. She hated the swords I forged for myself and my sons, and the thought of combat terrified her. But then, in those peaceful days in Aman, she had not lost her husband and all but one of her children to war. Boundless grief such as she must have suffered could hardly do but change her. It seemed that, rather than allowing it to break her, she had forged it into a weapon. My wife, ever the artist, had sculpted unthinkable anguish into determination and hate, and unleashed it with deadly force upon the enemy. And it did not consume her, as it had consumed me. It tempered her. It gave her the courage to stand upon a field of battle, rally her forces, and wreak her vengeance firsthand.

In certain ways, ever and always had she been stronger than I.

I did not know if any of this was true. But real or imagined, Nerdanel's extraordinary strength nourished and healed me, and her boundless love gave me hope that, even for me, salvation did yet exist

She had fought through hell and back for me. I could do the same.

Over the _Treatise_ I lingered longer than any other volume. I would spend entire days reading and rereading the words of friend and foe alike, until the light of Vása faded from the sky and I was so exhausted that I fell asleep right there at the table. I would wake tucked into bed in my room, with no memory of having come there, and tears I did not know I had shed wet upon my cheeks.

In this manner, quite some time passed. The shard of grief which had burrowed into my heart never vanished. It ached now with the pain of a half-healed wound which will bleed afresh if jarred, rather than that of an open one, but it remained. It was ever lurking like the wolves in the Void, ready to set upon me at any moment. I found I could diminish it somewhat by thinking of my sons reborn and happy in their new lives. I saw Maitimo and Macalaurë sprawled in the grass, a picnic basket of their favorite foods and a bottle of wine between them, trading tales and laughter. I imagined Tyelkormo tackled to the ground by a litter of Huan's pups, all intent upon licking him to death. I thought of Carnistir curled upon the rug before the fire, adorning a set of his robes with fine embroidery, his tongue poking between his lips in concentration. I saw Curufinwë at my side in the forge, his keen eyes taking in every movement of my hands upon the metal. And I imagined the little Ambarussa playing at war in the yard, laughing all the while, their combat too innocent to reflect the true violence of battle.

Eventually, heartened by the _Treatise_ and all it implied, I gathered the courage to venture out into the Gardens of the Reborn. The morning on which I beheld the living world for the first time is one that will live in my memory forevermore. It seemed an eternity since I had seen a sky so vividly blue, watched the play of light and shadow over the grass, felt a breeze caress my face. All the little things I had once taken for granted had been rendered infinitely wondrous and precious by my time in the Void. I wanted nothing more than to cast myself down in the grass and let _life _soak into my soul.

That morning, I swore with grateful tears upon my face that I would never again squander that most incredible of all gifts given by the Allfather. It was a binding vow, I knew, and it frightened me, for I had seen firsthand the ruin such oaths could cause. An oath of power is akin to a dragon: a soldier may ride it, if he has the courage, and it will bring him great power, but he may not have the luxury of choosing where to fly or when to land. Yet this oath was not like my other, born on a wild night of torchlight and drawn swords. This was a vow for the good, and one that I knew I could keep.

Some time passed, as I awaited the return of my full strength. My days were peaceful, spent reading in a hammock in the shade of tall trees, sitting by fountains, walking in the Gardens, or delighting in the antics of the little animals who lived there. They grew used to my presence, and chanced to come very close to me at times. One particular squirrel seemed to make a game of dropping acorns on my head as I sat beneath his tree, but even this was a cause for laughter rather than annoyance.

I threw myself into anything that struck my fancy with a passion I had not known in ages. I read books in ridiculous numbers, I made at least a cursory study of any foreign language I encountered, I held lively debates with the resident Maiar about lofty matters I had not occupied myself with since before I was wed. I even wrote music, though I doubt it was anything compared to what Macalaurë had composed in life. Sitting before Lady Vairë's concert harp, I would close my eyes and play for hours, letting melodies develop of their own free will from the tangled emotions within me. Many of my pieces were dark and somber, requiems for Arda Marred and all that had been lost. Yet here and there were songs that spoke of hope, and though they were the simplest of the lot, they were also the most beautiful. I never wrote any of them down, and for quite some time, I presumed them to have been lost.

There was, however, one thing I did commit to paper, and this was the story of my life, from my childhood to my death. I never intended for anyone to see those pages. It was more of a cathartic exercise, a way for me to exorcise my demons when they began tormenting me most fiercely. I spared myself nothing in my account, not even the details of my father's murder nor those of the First Kinslaying. When I finished it, I felt rather the better. My brutal honesty seemed to have relieved some of my burden, as though a small part of myself had made peace with the past. I was Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion. Both tragedies and triumphs were bound to the name, both joy and sorrow. Traitor and kinslayer, maker of curses and destroyer of peace, husband and father and creator and captain - I was all those things. There was no getting away from it; they were a part of my soul. At last I had begun to accept that.


	3. Grace - Part III

**_I apologize for the relatively short chapters; they should be getting longer soon! Please__ enjoy!_**

_Grace ~ Part III_

In the end, my former strength returned, and Lord Námo decreed that it was time for me to rejoin my people. The prospect terrified me nearly as much as that of the Allfather's judgment.

"I…I do not think I am ready," I told Lord Námo, upon learning of my impending release.

The Lord of Mandos smiled then, and there was more warmth in the ageless face than I had ever seen there – than I had thought possible. "For that reason, I know you are."

Profound as his words were, I heard no doubt in them, no indication that he was saying them merely to soothe me. They were sincere. For the first time, I considered that Lord Námo might truly care for me, and for all the _fëar_ in his charge. Had I been in a state of mind to notice, would I have seen pity or compassion in his eyes as he watched over me? Had he truly banned all emotion from his heart, or did he merely lock it away, so as not to let it interfere with his Eru-given duty?

"How can I face them, after all I caused them to suffer?"

Still smiling gently, Lord Námo took my face between his hands, as my father had done so often in my youth. "Have you so little faith in your family, child? No matter where you go or what you do, they will always love you unconditionally – I can promise you that. As for your people, let it be said that your allies have restored a great deal of honor to your name these past few ages. Did you think yourself rejected and forgotten by all you once called friends? I will not deny that there are folk enough who have never forgiven you, but… Well, I shall leave it to you to discover. You may indeed be hurt by some, but you will be pleasantly surprised by others. Repay their fealty with your redemption."

A ghost of the hopelessness I had experienced in the Void returned to whisper in my ear then, and I found it difficult to banish. "How?" I murmured, casting my eyes down.

"Love them," said Lord Námo. "Your capacity for love is your greatest gift."

I was silent, struck by the implications of this statement. So I was not a monster, then? Anyone who loved, truly loved, could not be evil. Perhaps I was not beyond saving. Inexpressible gratitude to my keeper welled up warm within me, for the first time since my coming to his halls. It was a strange feeling – gratitude had never come easily to me; ever and always was I too proud. The divine mercy of my rebirth had been the first event in ages to truly trigger the emotion. But grateful I was indeed.

If Lord Námo sensed this – and I am sure he did, perceptive as he is – he said nothing of it. "Come, now," he said, gently smoothing the shoulders of my robes – pale blue elaborately brocaded with silver, the colors of the reborn. "Do you not wish to see your homeland again?"

"Will it feel like home, or has the world changed so that I no longer have a place in it?"

"You have changed also, dearest one. Your family will be proud."

"Do they wish to see me?" Guilt crept into my voice.

Lord Námo narrowed his eyes in mock severity. "I have already answered that question. If you will not believe it until you see for yourself, that is your misfortune. You were always too stubborn for your own good. Now, come. You will be far less anxious once you take this first step."

It was true, and I knew it well. I could recall the presentations I gave as an apprentice, and the accompanying terror that fluttered madly in my stomach fit to make me ill. It always rose to an unbearable pitch as I heard my name called and stepped out before Lord Aulë, but as soon as I spoke my first words, it vanished. Even as an adult well-established as an orator, I had never been able to banish the faint flickers of anxiety that arose as I faced my people. It always took a few phrases to assure me that I had not lost my talent, that I was not speaking in a language none could understand (this last was a frequent nightmare). My return to the outside world, I suspected, would be much the same. It would take adjustment, perhaps years' worth of it, given how long I had been gone, but I would adjust.

Thus, with my nod of assent, Lord Námo led me to the gates of his halls. They stood in the gardens, I saw then. I had never noticed them before, for I had never wandered so close to the borders of my keeper's lands. I had never tried to escape. Looking upon the delicate golden bars, the only things standing between me and my release, I realized that some time during my sojourn in Mandos, I must have ceased to see myself as a prisoner. Mayhap I had never been one - not here, at least. In the Void, certainly, but in the Halls... If not a prisoner, what, then, was I to Lord Námo? Would he have stopped me if I had tried to flee through those gates before he declared it my time? I did not know, and likely I never would.

The Doomsman retreated from me a pace then, and in the morning sunlight his silver robes appeared as shimmering and insubstantial as mist. I looked at the gates again, thought how little it would take to push open those golden bars and put my black past forever behind me. How little it would take to change everything I had known to this point.

Suddenly, I was terrified again. Try as I did to raise my hand to the gates, I could not. My arm was heavy at my side, and strangely unresponsive. I realized I was trembling. I had never fallen to trembling in my previous life, save in those dark days after my father was slain. Ever and always had I been sure, steady, proud... For better or worse, it seemed the Void had stolen much of those things from me.

In a last-ditch effort to stall for time, I asked my keeper, "Was it not determined by mine oath and my crimes that I would be consigned to death until the world's ending? How is it that you may release me now?"

"Oh, child, do you truly believe that you made an oath so binding that the Allfather has no power over it?"

For a moment, I was tempted to reply that an unbreakable oath such as mine must be unbreakable even to the Allfather - I had called Him in witness, after all - but I remained silent. Having seen His power for myself during my Judgment, I was far more willing to believe in His infinite power.

"As to your crimes, you have been judged and forgiven by the highest Judge of all. Redemption is your task now; how do you expect to earn it by staying locked away in here?"

He made a fair point, as usual. It was difficult for me to accept, as usual.

"You will have guidance along the way, of course. Be not afraid."

Suddenly, Lord Námo's pleasant countenance darkened, and he lowered his voice grimly. "There is something else as well. There have been signs, you see - and I doubt they were visible to you as of yet, but they will be - that the Last Battle draws near. Why do you think the Halls have been steadily emptying, especially over the past Age? Soon there will be a war, and we will need you - all of you - if we are to win. We must win; the fate of our world depends on that. And you, my child, you have gifts that no other Elda has, gifts that will be essential -"

"So my people and I are to be used as weapons in your war games?" I burst out, anger flaring within me as a fire devours dry kindling.

"There is far more to it than that -"

"That is all we ever were to you - pawns to fight your battles while you cower behind the Pelóri and wring your hands!"

"Certainly not!"

"You have restored us to life just so we may die again!"

If my keeper's face had been grave before, it was absolutely black now. He knelt so that his face was on a level with mine, taking my wrists in a firm, fierce grasp. I was stunned into silence. Never had I seen him display such emotion.

"Do not think for a moment that my brethren and I do not wish you all the happiness in the world," he said, his voice low and ardent. "I do not send you back to die, I send you back to reclaim all the joy you lost in your previous life. Had you any idea how much we love you impossible, beautiful children, you would never have made such accusations."

Lord Námo paused, just long enough to allow me a rebuttal. My silence must surely have been damning.

"Yes, war will come," he went on. "Had you permitted me to finish what I was attempting to say to you, you would know that we do not intend to use you as weapons. You would be of great aid to us, all of you, if you choose to fight, but we will not force you to do so. We will leave it to your sense of honor and duty. And know that if you do choose to go to battle, you will not be abandoned. Things have changed a great deal, my bright one. The rules of the game have changed. This is not like earlier days, when the Valar were commanded never to interfere in the affairs of the Children. Nay, this is a war for all Arda, and are we not part of Arda? It is very likely we will join you in the fight, and if we do, we will do all in our power save defying the Allfather's will to keep you from death."

"Can you promise me that?" I asked, like a little child again, suspicious of his parents' intentions.

"I give you my word," said my keeper, "and I have never once broken my word."

He stood, smiling gently once more. "Consider as well, Curufinwë, that the Last Battle and the preceding war may present you with perfect opportunities for redemption - and for vengeance upon Gothmog."

Upon hearing the name of my slayer, my right hand went reflexively to my side, as though to clasp the hilt of a sword.

Vengeance, that fickle and powerful goddess. After all I had lost in her name, it seemed I longed for her still. The word stirred the embers of an ancient madness in me, nearly extinguished but yet alive, ready to blaze upwards with one gust from a bellows.

A grim smile crossed my lips, a ghost of the fell one I must have worn in my final battle. "But of course. I cannot forget Gothmog, can I?"

"No indeed, though you may have competition."

"Then we shall slay him together, all his victims. Is revenge any less sweet when divided?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said my keeper elusively. "When the time comes, you can decide, and I pray that if you find the wine of vengeance pleasing, you do not become so drunk upon it as to forget all you have learned here. Come, let us talk no more of this. War will be upon us quickly enough as it is. You have friends and kin to return to, and I intend you to do it before the night is out."

I waited for the wave of anxiety to wash over me, and it did - but not with so much force as before.

"I still do not think I am ready," I said, "but nor do I think I can stall any longer."

"Yes, for all your orator's skill, you will never sway my decision," said my keeper, indulgence in his eyes. He had eyes of a beautiful dark amber such as I had never encountered in nature. It put me in mind of hot cider, somehow, or tea mixed with honey, and I was strangely soothed.

"Is there anything I ought to know ere I leave you?" I asked.

"Aye, there is. Be aware that it often takes the newly released some time to accustom themselves to living outside of my lands, especially those who have been here for long periods. They may feel distinctly out of place for a little while, or overwhelmed by the world that has suddenly been opened to them. Expect to tire easily and seek rest and solitude often, at first. You may also be rather more...emotional than you once were. Do not be alarmed; there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, and it will fade with time."

He laid a hand alongside my cheek and went on,

"Know also, my dearest one, that you are loved. There are those who have never forgiven you for the suffering your deeds caused them, and they may seek to bring suffering upon you in turn. Do not let them. You have served your punishment, and your suffering is ended. Spend time with your family and your allies, and take comfort in them, for they will never turn against you. And nor, I should add, will I."

He bent his head to kiss my brow, and turned me firmly to face the golden gates again.

"Now, off with you. Do not deny Formenos the chance to set off the fireworks they've been hoarding for Ages for this very purpose."

Laughing gently, frightened but wonderfully eager as well, I asked, "Where will I go?"

"Wherever your heart takes you, my bright Fëanáro. May the Allfather's blessing go with you."

I glanced through the gates. A gentle dirt path lay beyond, lined by shady trees and dappled with sunlight. I had always loved that combination of sunlight and shadow that can only come of a summer's afternoon in the woods. Surely... Surely, this could not be so terrible.

A smile on my lips, I gave the gates a gentle push. They swung open easily, silently. The metal was comfortingly sun-warmed against my hands. I realized then that they had no lock.

I did not look back.

I closed my eyes, and for once, I did not think. The only thing to exist in my world was the beating of my heart.


	4. Homecoming - Part I

**_Thank you so much to those of you who read the past three chapters and those of you who left me comments! It means a great deal and it helps me to keep working at this!_**

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><p><em>Homecoming ~ Part I<br>_

It is the purpose of the Gardens of the Reborn to prepare those therein for their first terrifying steps back into the world. This is not accomplished very well.

The Gardens begin to feel distinctly unreal as one grows accustomed to his _hröa_. Objects develop a slight shimmer around the edges, akin to desert mirages which vanish silently into the heat when approached. One becomes restless, even agitated, sensing that life lies beyond Lord Námo's gates. Alive one may be behind them, but one cannot truly _live_.

When these symptoms appear in each of his charges, Lord Námo releases them into the world. I myself never developed the characteristic restlessness. Perhaps I would have, had I not left such a legacy of ruin behind me, but as it was, shame dampened my desire to return. Shame was a close companion of mine in those days. It seemed strange that it had ever been so unfamiliar. It had become a part of me, no different than my love of crafting beautiful things.

Still, even for me the Gardens took on an air of unreality in the end. The paths, the trees, the white fountains all began to ripple faintly, as though they might dissolve into darkness at any moment. The path I took away from the Halls did indeed do so shortly after I set foot upon it. For a terrifying half-second, I thought myself back in the Void. But then my consciousness fell away entirely, and when I woke, everything had changed.

There was a red glow behind my closed lids.

There was no more darkness.

My senses returned to me in a burst, so heightened that they were almost painful. As I shrank from this, a memory rose hazily to the surface of a dais ringed by ever-burning torches. I was not even certain that it was real, but in a moment of weakness, I wished myself there, in the stillness.

And then I remembered.

It was no dream-haze which veiled that place from me, but rather the pain of the things that had brought me there: the despair which nearly drove me to my own unmaking, visions I had been confronted with in the Void, real and unreal. The utter silence of the Night.

My mind shied away from those thoughts with a shudder. Nay, quietude was not what I wanted after all. I turned gratefully back to the rush of sensory perception.

I made sense of it slowly, deliberately, piece by piece. The musty smell of a sun-warmed field was all around me. Grass prickled gently through the fabric of my robes. A breeze stirred my hair. The songs of bird and insect entwined in disordered harmony. The air was that of a pleasant summer evening.

When at last I forced my heavy lids open, it was to behold a sunset more magnificent than I had ever seen, even from the Halls at the Uttermost West. The skies there were dull by compare, veiled by the close presence of death and the sorrows of the _fëar_ who dwelt in its shadow. But now… Never had I dreamed that such rich, burning colors could exist. I did not stop to wonder how it could be evening now when it had been afternoon when I left the Halls. The craftsman in me was already stirring with long-forgotten excitement at the thought of capturing those hues in crystal.

And then I pushed myself onto my knees and beheld, away before me, the city of my birth.

The white city of Tirion had changed little since I left it ages ago. The golden overlays on its great gates rippled with flame in the sunset, just as they had at the waxing of Laurelin. Farmhouses ringed outskirts of the city, simple and spread thinly over large plots of land, but towards the square, and the royal palace, they grew more clustered, more affluent. The crystal insets in the palace towers winked here and there like little stars brought down to earth. Above them all, the Mindon Eldalieva soared nearly into the clouds, a graceful spire of pearl and white marble.

Nay, nothing I had experienced in the Gardens, with their washed-out colors and flickering realities, had prepared me for this – for _life_. As vivid as Lord Námo's lands had appeared after so long in the Void, they could not hold a candle to the splendor of the outside world. All around me, in every tree and every flower and every little bird that darted across the sky, there thrummed an intense vitality. Every being in that place, however small and insignificant, seemed to sing, "_Feel my spirit rise, for I am alive! I live_!"

In my previous life, I had vowed never to kneel to anyone save my beloved sire. Yet at that moment, I bowed my head in reverence to He who had shown me mercy in my darkest hour, He who had made me remember what it was to be loved. My heart was brimful and racing, but I could not speak. I had no words with which to thank Him, though I so wanted to. I hoped He could feel my gratitude nonetheless, for only once had I ever been so grateful for anything – my rebirth. And I owed that to Him as well.

I drew sweet air evening deep into my lungs, and when I exhaled my breath hitched in my chest. It was only when I raised a shaking hand to my damp cheek that I realized there were tears upon my face – those of joy, at long last.

Standing shakily, I looked out across the hill of Túna at the city of my birth.

Tirion. I had closed my eyes, stilled my mind, and my heart had brought me to Tirion.

Home.

_Násië_, I thought, and set out for the city on legs that trembled with a mix of terror and elation.

I had left Tirion a mad king thirsting for vengeance. I returned to it now a pilgrim at the end of a very long journey, burning with a much softer flame. I had changed a great deal, and I knew it. Even to myself, I was hardly recognizable as the king who wrote his people's damnation in an oath of vengeance, in the bloodstained sands of Alqualondë, in the ashen remnants of the swan-ships burned at Losgar. Yet I knew also that most would not be aware of my transformation. Many would still see me as a _nér_ so fell and fey that he could sooner be called a demon than an elf.

Needless to say, in spite of the warm evening I kept the hood of my cloak over my face.

It was the feast of the summer solstice that night, I found later. The great golden gates, elegantly scrolled with climbing vines, stood open and unguarded. This made me wary. I knew from bitterest experience that evil things befell unwitting cities in time of festival. My father's death had burned that fact into the minds of all Valinor. To leave Tirion's gates unprotected, in light of past events, seemed nothing short of mad. Even if the Dark Lord and his legions were locked behind the Doors of Night at present, Lord Námo had indicated that that might soon change…

Uneasy though I was, I tried to shake myself free of such dark thoughts. Tonight, of all nights, I ought to rejoice.

Tirion unfolded before me, beautifully arrayed for festival. Silver lights were strung from the trees and between the buildings; some even shone up from beneath the waters of the fountains. The little crystals set into the white stone streets caught the glow and glittered beneath my feet. Music and dancing were around every corner, every courtyard ringed with laughing people. Most of the songs were quick and light, played skillfully by fiddle and drums. But here and there, I caught snatches of slower, mournful melodies, delivered in voices with a harsh ring to their edges. This was strange, even for the Noldor, whose voices were more brazen than the lilting ones of the Teleri or the Vanyar. I had heard these rougher accents before, it seemed, somewhere far away… The linguist in me could not help but be curious.

I saw many familiar faces – close friends of my youth, lords of my father's court, vendors whose stalls I had once frequented – but none did I approach. Tonight, I sought only the closest and dearest.

I found them, and far sooner than I had been prepared to.

My father was standing with a small knot of his councilors, regal in robes of deep blue shot with silver. His straight black hair was swept back by a circlet set with fine gems – a circlet I had crafted for him, I realized. In days past, I often made such things for my father, in an effort to express the love I could not put into words. As I approached him now, that love swelled within me, and words failed once more.

But it was not only love that choked my voice, for Atar was clad almost exactly as he had been on the night of his death. His face had healthy color now, and there was no dark wound marring his chest – I knew there was not. Yet I could not keep an image from flashing brutally into my mind – Atar dead at my feet in the square of Formenos, white and still, blood drying at the breast of his robes.

In the Void I had often been tormented by such visions. This one, in spite of the light and beauty all around me, in spite of my father standing before me reborn and well, was quite as painful. It was all I could do not to weep. Closing my eyes tight against the stab of anguish, I tried to breathe past the constriction in my throat.

I made him a low reverence, my hood still cast over my face.

"Your Majesty," I managed.

"Good evening, sir," said Atar amiably. "How may I be of service? Is this your first visit to our fair city?"

"Well, no…not exactly," I said vaguely, anxiety fluttering in my stomach. It was no use delaying this, I realized. Frightened as I was, part of me did not want to delay it. The mere sound of Atar's voice had melted away much of my resolve to tread carefully in Tirion. For millennia I had longed for his embrace, for his steady heartbeat, and now, with him so near, I did not think I could deny myself.

"I have been away from Tirion for some time, yet I know it well, for I was born and bred here," I began. Then, throwing caution to the winds, I cast back my hood. "I was – and am – your son."

To his credit, Atar did no more than turn very pale and clutch the wrist of the lord nearest him.

"Curufinwë," he breathed, his face carefully neutral, a full range of emotions in his voice. He took a step forward, brushing his fingertips against my cheeks as though fearing I would disappear if he touched me. "_Yonya_…are you real? Are you alive?"

"I am," I said in a tight voice. "I departed from Mandos this afternoon."

Suddenly, the guilt and dishonor of ages roared up within me, and I found I could not look him in the eyes.

"Oh, Atar… Do you wish to disown me?"

Before I knew what had happened, Atar's arms were tight around me, and my face was pressed against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, slow and strong. I closed my eyes, savoring that pulse, so steady, so reliable. My throat tightened painfully, though with what emotion, I was not yet sure.

Atar took me fiercely by the shoulders then and drew back a pace, his brilliant silver eyes illuminating all that was in my heart. Always he had been able to understand me, at times better than I understood myself.

"Is that any way to greet your father, after thousands of years of separation?" he said sternly.

"Yes – to put it lightly, I am greatly disappointed in your serious lack of judgment, and of character. Your actions at Alqualondë and Helcaraxë were atrocities of which you ought to be ashamed, both as a king and a child of Eru. I grant that you were in a terrible situation after the Darkening, but I thought I had taught you better. Know that you will not take the crown of the Noldor again until you prove yourself a better leader, for I will withhold it from you. But disown you, _yonya_? Never. You are a reckless fool at times, and have no doubt that I will discipline you for it. But you are also a child of my blood, and for that, I will love you for as long as time endures. That is a promise. There is nothing you have done or will do that can break it."

I bowed my head, at once shamed and reassured.

"But I… I brought ruin upon our family, upon our people –"

"Yes, you did. You have been punished, you have been forgiven, you have been given leave to earn your redemption, and that is the end of it. I will chastise you no further. I am sure you did not come here to listen to a scolding. Now, come and greet me properly!"

Abandoning all self-control, I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my face into his shoulder. I had not had close physical contact with other elves during my time in Mandos, and Atar's embrace then was like sitting down before a crackling hearth after a long journey in the cold. I was wrapped in warmth that spread all through me and left my skin tingling. My shoulders shook as though I wanted to weep, but no tears came. They had all been dried, it seemed, by joy so powerful that it made my very soul quiver. I recalled how I had felt during my Judgment, with the Allfather's Love filling my _fëa _ to capacity and then exceeding those limits, and realized that this moment felt much the same.

Then, before the lords of his court, Atar lifted me from the ground and spun me once around, as though I were a much smaller child. The laughter that burst from my lips was freer than it had been since before my exile to Formenos, and it felt wonderful. I wanted the Allfather to hear it, to share in my fierce joy, for I owed it all to Him.

Atar set me back on my feet and kissed my brow, and his courtiers broke into applause.

He drew me close once more, lowering his voice so that only I could hear. "Welcome home, my dear, precious child. I love you so very much."

"And I you, Atar," I murmured. Never had I meant it more.

I turned to greet his lords then, and felt a burst of tangled emotions rear within me as I saw who stood with them.

Nolofinwë was watching the proceedings with a well-composed countenance, handsome and proud as ever in rich red and gold robes. He was wearing my colors, I realized belatedly – and I was wearing his blue and silver. I did not know quite how to react to this strange reversal, though I was sure it must hold some meaning. I did not even know how to react to his presence. There was no hatred anymore; that had been destroyed long ago, when I realized how petty our little power struggle was compared to the war I led our people into. But there was no love, either. If anything, there came a sharp bite of shame when I looked into my half-brother's eyes. The shadow of my treachery on the Grinding Ice arose and settled itself mockingly between us, and I could all but hear Moringotto's laughter rumble from the Void.

_It will divide you always, and divided I will always conquer._

I wavered perilously for a moment, tempted to turn and lose myself in the crowd, to flee from the suffering I had brought upon my half-brother and his host. Could I face it? Could I face the hate that Nolofinwë undoubtedly bore me, and justifiably so? It would certainly be easier not to, but then, that would be handing the Dark Lord a victory. Nolofinwë and I had done great damage to Moringotto and his forces on our own, but neither of us had been able to slay him. If we two did not stand united against him when the Last Battle dawned, what would be the fate of the world?

No, the time for reconciling was now. I did not have to love him, not yet. I had to trust him, and earn his trust in return. That would be hard enough. So many evils lay between us, great and small.

"A beautiful evening, is it not?" said Nolofinwë at last. His tone was amiable enough, but I sensed the discomfort underneath, the tension humming in the air.

"Indeed so," I replied.

We were dancing the same dance we always had, he and I, exchanging the common courtesies in curt voices while secretly feeling threatened by each other's existence, hands going subconsciously to our swords. I did not have a weapon at that moment, and nor did he, but even so, I felt the fingers of my right hand twitch as if to clench about a sword-hilt. Nolofinwë's posture had gone rigid as well.

Atar must have sensed the strain between us. "I suppose you two have much you wish to …settle," he said. His voice was light, but beneath there was a command: _There will be no more animosity between my sons_. "Perhaps you ought to take a walk, get away from the crowds."

He was not giving us a choice in the matter, and we both knew it.

I had my doubts that leaving Nolofinwë and me alone would result in anything good, if we evoked tension and suspicion in each other simply by meeting each other's gaze. My mind was also blank as to how to apologize for leaving him and his people to die on a frozen wasteland. I did regret it, and very much, but there did not seem to be any words that would make it right.

Perhaps there were none. Perhaps all that mattered was that I conveyed my regret to him, and made it known that I was not still laughing at his misfortune, as I had while the ships burned at Losgar.

I looked back at Atar, desperate to be released from this task. If Nolofinwë and I were both given time to prepare, the results would be much better…

Atar did not waver. _Now_, said his silver eyes. "I will speak further with you later."

I turned to my half-brother, the air between us all but crackling with tension.

"Walk with me, then, Prince Nolofinwë."

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><p><strong>Quenya Words<strong>

Násië - Amen

Nér - an adult male of any species. In this case, an adult male elf, but it roughly translates to "man"

Yonya - my son

Atar - Father


	5. Homecoming - Part II

**_Thank you for your views and reviews! I hope everyone continues to enjoy!  
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><p><em>Homecoming ~ Part II<br>_

Silence lay heavily between the two of us as we walked, in stark contrast to the lively music all around. Neither he nor I knew what to say, nor how to raise the subject we both had to confront. For the most part, we kept our eyes forward, casting furtive, wary glances at each other now and then. Seeking relief, I turned my focus to the song being sung in the courtyard nearest us. It was a hymn to Varda, I realized, but it was entirely unlike the joyous paeans I knew from my previous life. It was slower, darker, with an edge of ancient sorrow and longing. I was struck again by the hardness of the singer's voice. It still held beauty – most elven voices did – but beauty of a raw, primordial sort. Such a tone had not been fostered in Valinor of old, I was certain. The emotions in the singer's voice were things we had not come to know until the Darkening, or perhaps even later. I was somewhat of an exception, for sorrow had visited me in the form of my mother's death ere Moringotto was released from the Void, but I did not know true grief until my father was slain.

With this thought, I broke the silence at last.

"Wherever did her voice acquire such accents?" I asked, endeavoring to keep my voice light.

"From Beleriand, I presume," said Nolofinwë. He matched the false brightness of my tone word for word. "She must be Exilic. Many of the Exiles who spent long periods overseas before returning to Valinor infused elements of the Sindarin language into their Quenya. That is the linguistic explanation, at any rate. 'Tis more commonly believed that it is sorrow which hardens their voices. They channel their pain into their singing, and in turn it draws out the pain in their listeners. Exilic singers are said to be unique in their ability to purge grief from those who hear them, because the Exiles understand better than any the full measure of anguish and loss."

And I had brought them to that understanding.

Dear-bought songs indeed.

"I believe it," I said quietly.

We lapsed into silence again, exchanging the great square and the mansions clustered around Atar's palace for merchant stalls decked with brightly-colored awning. The smells of various foods filled the air: smoked fish, roasted chestnuts, meat pies, fresh fruits… My stomach rumbled ravenously, and I realized that during all my years in the Gardens, I had not felt the need to sustain myself with food. Hunger began to gnaw at me with a sudden, insistent bite.

Finally, we came to a park far enough from the city center that it was largely unoccupied. The sunlight passing through the shady trees was deep amber, and the silver lights that wound about every trunk and bough gave the place an otherworldly air. The only sound save for the low voices of the visitors was the tinkling music of the elegant white fountains.

Nolofinwë sat down on the edge of the largest fountain in the park's center, close enough to speak but far enough apart to be distinctly awkward.

There was a long, terrible pause, and I began to have serious thoughts of leaving him there and getting myself some food. Caustic guilt bubbled up within me, adding to the hunger, and before long, it was unendurable. This was no political game; there was no dancing slyly around what had to be discussed.

"I never thought you would cross it!" I burst out ere I could stop myself.

Nolofinwë looked at me, some sharp emotion I could not decipher etched into his face.

"You refer to the Helcaraxë." His voice was as cold and hard as the Ice of which he spoke.

"Yes, and I truly believed you would turn back – indeed, I meant for you to turn back! You know as well as I how poorly your host reacted to the First Kinslaying –"

"They were right to do so. Perhaps if _your_ host had not cast morality to the winds –"

"I had every reason to fear treachery from you and yours! I meant for you to recognize that the crossing would be a terrible waste of lives and –"

"You dare speak to me of wasting lives, after all you have d –"

"- and turn back to Valinor, taking with you all who wished to cut my throat while I slept! The histories name our camp in Helcaraxë the Tents of Murmuring for a reason! My suspicions were not unfounded!"

"You brought treason upon yourself when you gutted Alqualondë's crown prince like a pig!'

"How could you, with all your vaunted nobility of heart, choose to sacrifice your people rather than go back and face the Valar's judgment?"

"Who left me with that choice? _Who left me there?_"

"You made the decision, Nolofinwë! Your actions were just as unbefitting a leader as were mine at Alqualondë!"

We were both on our feet without knowing when we had risen, without knowing how the argument had escalated so quickly, chests heaving, eyes sparking with rage. For a moment, we held each other's burning gaze, and then quite suddenly, all strength seemed to flee us both. The words had been said; there was no taking them back. The ancient anguish in them filled our veins like cold, clammy poison, leeching away our fury. We sank back down to the rim of the fountain as one.

"I never thought you would cross it," I repeated wearily.

"You underestimated me," said Nolofinwë, his voice flat and oddly defeated, "then as always. You underestimated my will, my courage, and my capacity to be just as much a prideful fool as you are. We are not so dissimilar, Fëanáro."

He drew a deep breath, and it shuddered slightly, as though he were thinking something painful.

"Tell me why you abandoned my host, and I will tell you why I did not turn back."

"I have told you, Nolofinwë. They were sickened by the fighting at Alqualondë, and when they got word that I intended to lead them across the Helcaraxë – to their likely demise – their opinions of me did not exactly improve. Most of them had thought me mad and unfit to rule from the beginning – which was quite true, I confess. They scarcely needed an excuse to kill me and install you as their king. Some of my own folk, even, were having such thoughts. I heard the whispers and I knew what they meant; I had lost my mind, not my intelligence. Yes, I brought it all upon myself, but should that have stopped me from wishing to preserve my life? I desired vengeance, above all else. For that, I had to be alive. And I…I was frightened – at least, in rare moments of sanity. I was frightened of what I had become at Alqualondë, frightened of rule, frightened of turning my back and feeling a knife stab into it. I needed you gone, all of you. Slipping off with the ships and those I considered loyal accomplished that."

Nolofinwë had listened to this in silence. Only the white knuckles of his clenched hands betrayed the turbulent emotions within him.

He nodded slowly, deliberately.

"It makes sense, I suppose. Did you ever think of us?"

"No, not until the Void. Only did regret come to me – and I did regret, if you will believe it. Until Alqualondë, I placed a high value on every life, down to the smallest of insects that crawl through the grass. When the Void stripped me of my madness and I considered the tremendous loss of life your host must have suffered, I grieved for you. I truly am sorry, little though that means. Far better I had died and you had taken the crown. Incidentally…how close were your folk to pushing me into that water and making it look as though the ice had simply given way beneath me?"

"I will say this – for your sake, you were wise to slip away when you did."

I could not suppress a shiver. I had always feared drowning, and the thought of sinking into the bitter, chilled-steel waters of the Helcaraxë, the cold so intense that it burned and the ice shifting to choke my path back to the surface was terrifying. Yes, I regretted the deaths of my half-brother's people. I did not regret leaving that place.

Nolofinwë ran his hands restlessly through his hair, as though bracing himself for something unpleasant.

"Well, you have given me your confession, and I thank you for it. Now I owe you mine. Would you care to know the reasons I led that crossing, rather than turn back and spare my people slow death in a frozen hell? It was vengeance, partly – when Morgoth slew Atar, I hated him quite as much as you did. I burned to give him a proper war. But more than that, it was pride. I did not want to give you the satisfaction of knowing that I had retreated in the face of adversity, that I had turned craven and gone crawling back to the Valar. There was very little of nobility in my motives, Fëanáro. There was far more of hate. For many, the hatred they bore you was all that sustained them across the Ice. It sustained me as well. I did not hesitate to embrace it."

"Ah, so you are not the stainless martyr that history makes you out to be! You came to know hate and madness just as I did."

"I did, and thousands paid for it. You see, while you set off the talk of treason, half of the blame for the consequences of your reaction to it lies with me. Half of the deaths on the Helcaraxë are in my hands. I still have not quite forgiven you for that."

"You made the choice. I put you in a difficult position, but you made the choice."

"What would you have done? Search your heart, Fëanáro. You know the answer."

I gave no response, but the instinctive tilt of my head downwards must have told him all he wished to know. Yes, I had been wrong, very wrong; I was keenly aware of it.

Endeavoring to recover my defenses, I asked him, sarcasm dripping from my voice, "And what about you, Nolofinwë? Were you furious when you arrived in Beleriand and found that the Valaraukar had robbed you of your chance to slay me?"

He met my gaze full-on, his silver eyes afire with something powerful and unreadable.

"I grieved for you."

This shocked me so deeply that I nearly tipped backwards into the fountain. He who had every reason to loathe me had mourned my death? There was not a shred of logic about it! Lord Námo had said that my family would love me unconditionally, but this was simply too much!

"How, pray, did it come to that?" I asked slowly, steadily.

"In my youth, I loved you a great deal," said Nolofinwë. "I do not think you will ever understand how much. Eru knows you made it difficult for me, but I could not help it. You were my brilliant, magnificent elder brother, prodigious in every craft to which he set his hand, held dearer to Atar than life itself, effortlessly capturing the admiration of the kingdom and the heart of every young maiden… You were all but a god in those days, Fëanáro. I could not do but love you.

"The resentment and jealousy came later, when you made the Silmarilli. I grew utterly sick of living in your shadow, knowing I would never be your equal in Atar's heart or in the minds of the people. Yet even then, some small, childlike part of me existed which refused to stop loving you. It was not until the Helcaraxë, when I saw the light of the burning ships on the horizon and knew myself to be betrayed, that hate exploded in me. Yet…the betrayal of my host was not what I hated you for the most, nor the choice you forced me into making. It was the betrayal of my love. Have you any idea how dearly I hoped that Atar's death would unite us? Have you any idea how much faith I had in you, even then? You could have been such a king, Fëanáro, the finest our people had ever seen. I never wanted your crown. Had you not fled into the night when Atar was slain and utterly lost your mind, I would have stood proudly at your right hand and followed wherever you led. I so wanted us to be brothers, and in my foolish idealism, I thought that surely, Atar's death would allow that to happen. It would bring us together at last, against a common enemy. When you swore the Oath, when you shed blood at Alqualondë, when you stole away in those ships, you shattered all of those hopes. I was forced to recognize that you had never seen me as a brother, much less felt any semblance of love, no matter how much I wished it to be otherwise. That realization hurt most of all. That was what I truly hated you for. I still do, to some extent.

"But yes, I grieved for you. I grieved for what might have been, for what never was, and for such glorious potential turned to ash. You could have been such a light for the world."

It might well have been a trick of the setting sun, but I was quite certain that there were tears in Nolofinwë's eyes.

Of a sudden, I wondered very seriously if his final duel with Moringotto, the subject of so many glorious songs and poems, had not been engaged only for his people, but for me. He knew it was what I had so desired to do; everyone did. Death had robbed me of that chance. Had he taken it upon himself to fulfill my last wish?

Had he died for me?

It was ridiculous; it could not be. One did not give his life in service to his betrayer. Yet…

Even in hatred, he had loved me…

I had never known…

I was feeling more like a monster by the second.

Nolofinwë had been watching me with pained eyes as I sat in stunned silence. Somewhere in his cold, beautiful face was a plea to speak, to confirm that he had not opened his heart in vain.

"What is it you ask of me?" I was taken aback at how soft and strained my own voice was.

"You must promise me something, ere I can find it in my heart to forgive you."

"I believe I owe you that much."

"Promise me that there will be no more swords in the streets and the council halls, no more obsessive fixations on your treasures, no more oaths of vengeance, and no more rejections of those who are trying desperately love you."

Only the last of his requests applied directly to him; the rest seemed more for the good of the Noldor.

_Ah, insufferably noble as always, try as you might to deny it_.

To my surprise, I found affection stirring faintly within me.

Perhaps it was not too late to change.

"These things I promise, Nolofinwë. Let us begin as allies. We may yet end as brothers."

In my previous life, I had delighted in using the term 'half-brother' as a barb with which to sting him, to lower his self-worth and suggest that he was not a true heir the Noldorin throne. He had never once used it against me in turn. He had always called me brother, right to the very end. The deliberateness with which I now conferred upon him that same title was not lost on him, I was sure. It was not done out of love – not yet – but something not far removed.

No, we were not entirely reconciled. We never could have come to that in a single night; too much lay between us. But both of us had come to an understanding, and that was a fair start.

He was silent, raising a questioning brow. Thousands of years of my rejection had trained him not to trust me, I realized with a pang of guilt. Yet after a moment, he reached out a hand and clasped my forearm in a soldier's grip, a sign of fealty and respect.

"Brothers."

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><p>Just in case - "Exiles" refer to any elf of Valinor who took part in the Noldorin rebellion and went to Beleriand to wage war on Morgoth.<p>

The cast of characters is going to grow quite large over time, so if anyone's interested in a comprehensive character list for reference, let me know!


	6. Homecoming - Part III

**_Thank you again for all your kind words! It helps more than you know!  
><em>**

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><p><em>Homecoming ~ Part III<br>_

"So am I evil, then?"

"Of course not. You did great things for our people, Fëanáro, and that cannot be discounted. Aside from that, you raised seven sons whom you loved more than life - now, hush, we all know it to be true, including your boys. To name you evil would imply that you never did a single good thing in this world, which is not true. Your character is not defined by the misdeeds of your later years, but by your life as a whole. I would say rather that you are neither wholly good nor wholly evil, but some combination of both."

"I doubt that is what your loremasters say. To them, you are an angel, and I am demon."

"Some do say so, and they are wrong. An angel and a demon dwell side by side in us all, and our decisions are influenced by them both. Now, that does not excuse you - and do not think for a moment that I have forgiven what you did - but it does change things a bit."

"The demon must certainly have held greater sway in me, those last few years."

"Oh, perhaps not. There are some who argue that your war was rooted in love - love for Atar, love so great that you were driven mad when he was slain. Their belief is that recovering the Silmarilli was a front to conceal how deeply you were grieving. Only you know for certain, Fëanáro."

"I wanted the Silmarilli back, certainly, but vengeance for Atar was the only thing that could have brought me any semblance of peace. In truth, I...I suppose I do not know what I was thinking in those days. It frightens me to think that I was ever so fell and fey..."

"But you were, and there is nothing to be done about it now. Dwell rather on who you are now."

"I do not know who I am, Nolofinwë."

We had left the park behind us over the course of our conversation and returned to the market district. The bustling crowd lent us a certain anonymity, for which I was grateful, for I knew I must look terribly lost. There in the midst of the revelers, my half-brother grasped my wrist and brought me to a halt, looking deeply and searchingly into my face. He made a pitying noise in his throat, and his grey eyes darkened with ancient regrets.

"Sometimes I wonder... Had you not shut us out after the Darkening, had someone been able to hold you and let you weep a while and advise you of the best course to steer through that tragedy, would history have been different? I daresay it would have. Many things might have been prevented, had you not thought yourself utterly alone and beset by traitors."

I let my head tip forward in a defeated motion that was becoming all too familiar. In my previous life, I had indeed made an art form of throwing up walls against those who only meant to help me. Even before the Darkening, on those occasions when I was consumed by a particular project and locked myself in my forge for days on end, it must have seemed to those around me that I valued my work more highly than their love.

Nolofinwë's hand gently clasped my arm.

"I do not mean to upset you. 'Tis only that I do not wish you to fall again."

He clicked his tongue sympathetically and squeezed my arm, reminding me vividly of Atar.

"Come, let us find some food. You will feel better."

His pragmatism was somehow comforting, in the face of all the moral and philosophical questions I had to grapple with. I did not resist him as he led me through the market, stopping eventually before a stall I recognized at once, even after all my time in Mandos. The vendor and I were well-acquainted, for his roasted chestnuts had been a favorite treat of mine as a child, and I had visited him whenever I could escape the palace. He had never accepted payment from me, though he knew as well as I that I could have offered him enough to ensure that he would never again want for anything. No, all he would take was a lively conversation and my assurance that I was happy and well looked-after. He never failed to cheer me, even with his truly ridiculous jokes.

Nothing about him had changed, save that his eyes were a bit deeper, holding more sadness than they once had. At the sight of me, alive and walking peacefully with my half-brother, he looked ready to weep with joy. He clasped my hands and blessed me and welcomed me home with such sincerity that I felt my eyes begin to sting. I told him rather guiltily that I had no coin with me (there is no use for it in the Halls, after all), but he waved the matter aside and said I had already given him all he could ask for. He would accept nothing from Nolofinwë, either.

To this day, I am not certain he knows how deeply he touched me that night.

We left the stall with a bag of chestnuts between us. Their sweet, earthy taste brought a wave of nostalgia, and an unexpected blow of sadness for the innocence I had lost. It struck me then how much I had truly missed Tirion - not the fractured, poisoned Tirion that Moringotto cultivated, but the Tirion of my childhood, full of light and laughter and music - the Tirion that was home.

"Do you think we can defeat him?" I said suddenly. "The Dark Lord, I mean."

"Of course we can," came a voice from behind us, a rich female voice that I knew in my heart before my mind accepted it. "Forgive me for intruding upon your conversation, but I could not help -"

Her voice died away abruptly as she drew up beside us and looked full into my face. My own heart nearly stopped.

She was Nerdanel, but not Nerdanel as I remembered her, bitter and despairing and weakened by the births of seven children. Now she was as young and strong as she had been the very first time I entered her father's smithy - no, stronger still, and more beautiful than ever. She was clad in a gown of forest green, a girdle of golden links about her waist. She had never been pale, but now the sun had rendered her skin a smooth nut-brown, the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks but a shade darker. Her copper curls were wild and unbound, accenting the contours of her face and setting off her warm emerald eyes. There was something in her bearing as well, a subtle pride and courage, the sort that comes from riding far across savage country and learning profound things about oneself.

So taken aback was I by her sudden appearance that I almost failed to notice the sword belted to her girdle - sheathless, elegant, and deadly sharp.

So the accounts I had read in Mandos of a flame-haired _nís _who fought with as much strength as any male... Were they indeed true? Had my quiet, humble wife truly been at war?

Words failed me utterly, for there was nothing to be said that would suffice, nothing that could make reparations for all I had taken from her.

For a moment, we stood in silence, our eyes taking in every aspect of each other.

And then, she spared me the trouble of speech. No sooner had I opened my mouth than she dealt me a hard, backhanded blow across the face. Behind me, I heard Nolofinwë clap a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"I know not whether to kiss you or damn well kill you, Fëanáro!" she cried. The fury in her face only augmented her beauty.

"Please do not do that, Istyë; Eru knows what Lord Námo would do if he found me back on his doorstep so soon."

A smile slowly illuminated Nerdanel's face, reluctant but irrepressible.

"I suppose I shall have to kiss you, then," she said. With incredible restraint that must have come of years as a battlefield commander, she stood on her toes and kissed my cheek, stinging from her blow, and then, more deeply, my lips. Warmth flooded all parts of my body, leaving my skin tingling in its wake. Instinctively, I tucked an arm around her waist and drew her closer, and she did not resist. She linked her hands at the back of my neck, leaning into me, her body molding perfectly to mine, as if no time at all had passed since the day of our wedding. Eru, I was not aware until that moment how deeply I had yearned for her!

After a moment which seemed to hang suspended in eternity, she drew back, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a breathless giggle.

"I suppose I should thank you, really," she said. "Had you and your war not touched me so personally, not caused me such suffering, I would not have become who I am. Suffering led to grief, grief to understanding, understanding to hate, and hate to strength."

"Hatred of what, Istyë?" I asked softly, terrified of the answer. "Of me?"

"Oh, no. I tried to hate you, at least in the beginning, but I could not, because some small part of me knew that you were not the principal cause of my pain. It was Morgoth. It was always Morgoth. Once I understood that, understood that if not for him, my family would still be alive... I do not doubt that he felt the full force of my hatred when I turned it upon him, even in the Void. There is no wrath quite like that of a mother who has lost her sons and a wife who has lost her husband. That was what made me strong. That was what gave me the desire and the courage to fight."

"You did go to war, then?" The prospect was both terrifying and beautiful.

"Yes, I did, along with the rest of the Vanguard - that is my host, you see, a small group of Elven women sick to death of sitting idle at home while their loved ones fell in combat. The story is far too long for tonight, and it involves a great many people, but soon, I shall tell you. It was not an easy road for us. Very few believed we would amount to anything, and I confess there were times when I lost my faith as well, but we never surrendered. The training was well worth it in the end."

She paused, a fierce fire burning in her eyes.

"A great many things have changed since you left us, myself most of all. You shall have the story in time, I promise you, but until then, just...trust me. Trust that I love you. Trust that I have never ceased to."

I felt something give way within me at the sound of these words. Yes, I had been able to tell from the _Treatise of Truth_ that she had forgiven me, but to hear an assurance of her love in her own voice touched a place far deeper. She had more reason to hate me than any, even Nolofinwë, and yet she had chosen rather to target the Dark Lord and his legions, taking upon herself the legacy I had left unfinished.

I had only ever given her pain and anguish.

She was so much more than I deserved.

I sank to my knees before her, pressing her hands to my brow, casting my stinging eyes to the ground.

"Eru, Istyë, I am so very sorry... How many times did I hurt you without being aware of it? How many times did I bring you to harm, with my pride and my recklessness and my fixation upon my work? How many times did I deny you the love you deserved? More times than I know, I am sure, selfish as I am. From this night forward, I promise that I shall do my utmost to give you all I once withheld, to be the husband and father I should have been long ago. And if I ever again cause you grief..."

"I will forgive you, as I always have," said Nerdanel smoothly, cutting short my desperate words. She drew me to my feet and into her arms in one fluid motion. "At our wedding, we said 'forever,' Fëanáro. I did not make that vow lightly, and I intend to hold to it. If you do as well, no new grief need divide us."

"I do," I managed, my voice soft and strained.

"Good," said Nerdanel, and there was a full range of emotions in that single word. "Be still, now. Let me hold you. I have waited so long to hold you."

I did not object to this. I needed her gentle hands and her strong, slender arms more than even she knew.

For a long moment, we stood in silence, Nerdanel's hands running smoothly through my hair, her face nuzzled into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. Her presence, so sure and steady and loving, was a perfect remedy to the overwhelming, sickening feeling of being lost that had plagued me since my coming to the Void. Things long blurred suddenly became clear, fears deeply engrained were smoothed gently away. I relaxed a bit, resting my head against hers and closing my eyes, willing the world to fall away.

She drew back a pace, her hands clasping my arms, and kissed me once more.

"I love you, Finwion," she said. It was not a question, it was a statement, and there was no doubt as to its truth.

"And I you, Istyë."

Behind us, Nolofinwë was leaning against the wall of the nearest building, one leg bent so that his foot was propped against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be caught between amusement and awkwardness.

"I do believe we are thoroughly discomfiting your brother," said Nerdanel, not unkindly.

"Yes, well, perhaps I should leave you two your privacy," said Nolofinwë, clearing his throat. "If you need anything, Fëanáro, call on me. I know how it is, returning to the living world after a long while in Mandos. I can advise you as to what to expect and so forth. Behave, now. You do not want to spoil your second chance at life on your first night."

"Goodnight, then, Nolofinwë."

"Goodnight, Fëanáro. Istarnië, keep him in check."

"Of course," said my wife, drawing her sword slowly from her belt so that I was able to take in every gleaming, deadly inch of it. She let the point hover threateningly at my throat. "That should not be difficult. I am far stronger than I used to be."

"Careful, my love," I said, mischief in my voice. "I have heard that it is banishment to draw steel on another Elda."

Nerdanel threw her head back and laughed, a rich, glorious sound, and stowed her blade with a scrape of steel. She took me by the hand and led me back towards the city center.

"In payment for that ridiculous jest, I believe you owe me a dance!"

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><p><span>Quenya Names<span>

Istarnië - mother-name of Nerdanel

Istyë - shortened form of Istarnië; Fëanáro's affectionate nickname for his wife

Finwion - "Son of Finwë" - Nerdanel's affectionate nickname for Fëanáro


	7. Homecoming - Part IV

**_I so wanted the sons of Fëanor to make their appearance in this chapter, but it would have gotten far too long, and those reunions would not have had the attention they deserved. Besides, Fëanor and Nerdanel deserve a bit more private time. I apologize and I ask you to bear with me; the boys will appear next time for sure! Thanks for coming this far with me!  
><em>**

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><p><em>Homecoming ~ Part IV<br>_

It was only after Nolofinwë had gone that Nerdanel turned to me, revealing the tears sparkling in her emerald eyes - not of sorrow, but of joy beyond words. She smiled warmly.

"I know I should be angry with you; I should be furious. The things you did, Fëanáro..."

She closed her eyes against the echo of boundless grief.

"Believe me, I have tried to be angry. But I cannot be, not anymore. My sons are reborn and my suffering has been turned to strength; what have I to hold against you? Better to forgive and move forward. Besides..." She curled a lock of my hair around her finger. "...I love you too much. I know I do. Naught else could have inspired me to spend ages fighting for your honor."

"I left you with much to do," I said bitterly. "The _Treatise _alone must have kept you occupied for quite some time."

"You know of the _Treatise of Truth_?"

"Know it? I read it from beginning to end in Mandos, and I do believe it was largely responsible for my salvation. I am sure you walked a fine line in avoiding justifying our actions, but it was well and beautifully done, and for me, deeply moving."

Nerdanel's face grew radiant.

"Oh, I am so glad! We were delighted to see how much the _Treatise_ improved Arda's opinion of you, but at once we feared that you, for whom we had truly published it, would never see it. To hear that you _have_ seen it, and that it meant something to you, makes all of our work worthwhile."

She stood on her toes to kiss me, then returned her hand to mine, leaning instinctively into me. I was stunned once again at how wonderful physical contact, however slight could feel.

Nerdanel drew me towards the central courtyard, a beautiful circle of white cobblestone, inlaid with a golden mosaic patterned after my father's heraldic Star. Thick, shady trees were planted in neat rows around it, and the lights strung from them cast a silvery glow over the dancers. A high dais stood at one end, before the gates of the palace, its polished marble gleaming, and my heart missed a beat to see it.

I swore my Oath there.

I incited my people to war and ruin there.

I damned us all there.

For a moment, I saw myself standing upon it, looking out over countless torches flickering on waves of darkness. Their light cast a red glow on my drawn sword, as though it was already stained with blood. I felt the turbulent emotions of my people wash over me, felt a hot surge of adrenaline and fury roar up within me until it seemed I would burst if I did not throw back my head and howl my vengeance to high heaven.

Eru, I was no better than Moringotto that night, drunk on battle-fervor and the power of my own voice.

Nerdanel sensed my inner turmoil, I knew, for her gaze had followed mine to the dais. Presently, she squeezed my hand and drew me towards it.

"You must reject it, love," she said. "Your past sins are forgiven; they cannot hurt you now. Let them go."

She led me to the base of the dais and my blood froze. It was as though I could still feel a ghost of the Oath and its terrible binding power.

"Istyë, I cannot... I belong to the past, to the Oath, to the Void."

"You do not. You were released long ago."

"They are triple-locked still, all of them!"

Nerdanel took me by the shoulders and spun me to face her, her eyes afire.

"Do you believe, Fëanáro, that there is a single lock, a single chain, a single oath that the Allfather cannot break? He loosed every one of your bonds when you stood before Him in judgment; you are free! For your own peace of mind, you must believe that you are. You must declare it to yourself and to your past."

My legs were locked, and had Nerdanel not kept one hand at my back, I would have fallen flat.

"I am with you," she said as we took the steps to the dais.

And she was. Her hand was warm and firm in mine, roughened with many years of craftsmanship. She was my rock, my strength, and my love, as she had always been. Her faith in me was absolute, as was mine in her.

It was in myself that I had a severe lack of confidence.

A cold as keen and penetrating as that of the Void knifed through me, stealing my breath. It was as though the Oath had become a sentient thing, had crept up inside me and hissed in a voice of ageless malice,

_Never free never free never free..._

I sank to my knees, shivering in the warm night. It was so strong, so very strong, glutted on the blood of countless thousands and the souls it had drained of life and light. What had begun as mere words spoken in the name of the Father had become a demon of terrifying power, self-willed, ever thirsting, never sated.

_Never free never free never free..._

Eru, it was so strong. It had far surpassed the strength of its creator. The thought was horrible.

If I could not master it, who could?

Nerdanel's hand was warm in mine, burning through the ice that had filled my veins.

"It has no strength," came her voice, as though from a great distance at first, then growing steadily clearer. "It is destroyed, rendered powerless by the Allfather, and the Allfather conquers all evil. The only place it yet survives is in your mind, Fëanáro. Your mind is a home of which you are the master; you have every authority to dismiss unwanted guests. Do so! Banish this demon!"

Deep within me, the fire of my spirit rekindled as a tiny spark.

_You have no power over me_, I told the monster whose sinuous black coils were wrapped about my soul. _You have no power over my people. The Allfather drove you back into the pits of grief and madness from whence you came. Those you claimed are reborn and rejoicing in their new lives. The evil you wrought is healed, and you shall harm us no more! By Eru's name I gave you life; by Eru's name I give you death! By all that is good and holy, I, Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, cast you back into the poisoned depths that bore you! I renounce you and your power, now and forever!_

A brief and brutal struggle ensued between my burning words and the icy voice of the demon.

_Never gone never gone never gone... _it hissed.

_You _are _gone_, I said, my mind-voice now soft and deadly. _You are nothing_.

There was something akin to a shriek of chilling, inhuman pain, a roaring of water in my ears, a feeling of splitting apart from within -

I came abruptly back to reality to the thunder of a drum cadence, accompanied by a sweeping crescendo of harmony from every musician in the city. There came a peak of sound so powerful that it shook the ground beneath my feet, and then, with the cutoff, every light in Tirion was extinguished.

I knew a moment of horror in which I was hurled back to the night of the Darkening, the night when my world shattered. Every fiber of my being screamed in anguished protest.

Then suddenly, with a burst of music, the torches blazed back into life, and every star in the heavens seemed to burn with a greater intensity so that a mantle of diamonds was spread above us. Every voice in the city was raised in concert with the strings and percussion, singing a glorious hymn to Eru and to life. The harmony was about me and within me, driving out the cold of the Oath, setting my spirit quivering with joy.

"It must be midnight," said Nerdanel, drawing me to my feet. "Midsummer's Day begins now. It seems fitting, does it not? Our brightest star returns to us on the day of longest light."

She settled herself against me, laying one hand on my shoulder and twining the other with mine.

"Dance with me," she said. "We have so much to celebrate."

She laid her head on my chest, and I rocked her gently on the sweet tide of the music. It seemed defiant somehow, dancing together in utter bliss atop the very dais where such sorrow came into being. With my wife in my arms and my words of exorcism still burning in my mind, I felt as though an incredible burden had been lifted from me. My heart was lighter, cleaner, purer than it had been in ages.

As I relaxed, I realized that this darkness was nothing like that which had fallen when the Two Trees were destroyed. Where the Unlight had been cold and clammy, paralyzing the body and sucking all the breath from it, this was warm and gentle, settled about the world like a veil jeweled with stars. Even the sea of torches I now looked out upon was different than what I had seen from the dais when last I stood there. On that night, in that darkness, the firelight had been sickly, distorting my people's faces, rendering them lost in some purgatory between light and shadow. Tonight, the fires were steady and sure, their light blurring the hard edges of all it touched, smoothing them over with beauty.

Firelight and starlight. Gold and silver. The Two Trees reincarnated.

The thought was heartening. Moringotto had destroyed the vessels of Yavanna's making, yes, but the light they had held lived on in every other light, great and small. He would never extinguish them all. His conquest would never be complete.

The combination of fire and stars seemed somehow primitive also, something that hearkened back to Cuiviénen of old, and campfires beneath dark skies. My father's earliest days were spent there, between such lights, I realized. A longing for my ancestral home rose in me, a longing to see them as my father had, playing not over walls of stone, but over a mirror-still lake, smooth and black as obsidian glass. Eru, it must have been beautiful!

Watching the torchlight and the starlight mingle on Nerdanel's face, I had a glimpse of how she must have looked on the field of battle, amidst the fires set by the enemy and the cold silver gleam of steel. Suddenly, it became far less difficult to see her as a soldier.

Resting my head atop hers, I asked her, "What was your finest battle?"

"Goodness, they were all fine in their own way," she replied, a fierce, beautiful smile on her lips. "If I had to choose, I would say that I loved best the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, when the Vanguard joined the riders of Rohan for a final charge to break the leaguer on Minas Tirith. You cannot imagine the power in six thousand galloping horses and six thousand riders screaming with battle-fury. It causes the ground to shake, and then it flows up through the horses' feet and into the soldiers' every vein and sets their blood aflame... To this day, I wonder how our enemies managed to stand their ground and meet us. For a few glorious moments, we were untouchable. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could harm us."

The fervor in Nerdanel's face dimmed a bit ere next she spoke.

"Of course, it did not last. We were granted just enough power to sweep down that field and break the enemy lines, and after that, the fighting took quite a toll on us all." She sighed. "It almost seems a sin to love it so."

"I see nothing sinful in rejoicing in your enemies' deaths, my love, as long as you never cease to honor the Children of Eru who also gave their lives."

"There is far more to war than the deaths of the enemy," said Nerdanel. "If it were only that, I do not think I would love it. It would merely be a duty. As it is, there is something about it, something raw and primal, that gets into my blood and... I cannot explain. You did not experience enough of battle to understand, but when the Last Battle comes, you will learn. I pray that Eru will keep you safe when you do, for war is a dangerous thing. It acts on certain soldiers like a strong drink - if they are not careful, they lose themselves to it."

I knew that all too well. I knew what I had become at Alqualondë, and in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Dear Eru, on those two occasions I daresay I loved battle even more than Nerdanel did. It gave me a physical release for my anguish, a physical target for my vengeance, and a vicious sense of fulfillment that I desperately needed - especially after so long of feeling that I had allowed my father to be slain, and committed an irredeemable failure.

Unfortunately, it had also turned me into a monster. That invincibility that Nerdanel had described was something I understood as well. It numbed my mind to all but fury at Alqualondë, it sent me charging into the waiting arms of death at Dor Daedeloth. Seeking to feel anything other than grief and guilt, I had embraced war and drained glass after glass of it, and that had been my downfall.

But now was not then. When the Last Battle dawned, I would not be alone and grieving. I would have my family and friends at my side, and they would keep me firmly grounded. As long as they were with me, as long as they loved me and I loved them, I knew I would not spiral away into madness again. Love was the remedy to the intoxication of battle.

On the other hand, the prospect of final vengeance upon the Dark Lord and his legions was attractive indeed. In my mind, I saw myself draw back and plunge my blade into Gothmog's chest, and something hot seared through me with such force that it set me shaking - with something utterly apart from fear.

Deny it as I might, I was a Noldo, and war was in my blood.

_Come if you dare, demons_, I thought. _You will find it will not be like before. The Children of Eru are ready and waiting for you this time._

The hymn to Eru ended then, transitioning into a dark, lively reel.

"Do you remember this song?" asked Nerdanel.

"Absolutely not!" I had never been one for dancing in my previous life. My wife had always been the dancer.

"Then make it up!"

She took me by the hand and led me down from the dais, into the throng. My heart light and rejoicing still in my renunciation of the Oath, the prospect of the Dark Lord's fall, and in _life_, I let my inhibitions fall away. The beat of the drums settled inside me, filled me from head to foot.

The world dissolved into firelight, starlight, and music, through which shone the emerald eyes of my wife.


	8. Homecoming - Part V

_**Finally we have the sons of**** F****ë****anor! For future reference, I follow the plotline where neither of the twins die at Losgar. I absolutely cannot reconcile that, and I don't think their father would be able to either. Warning for shameless fluff. Please enjoy!**_

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><p><em>Homecoming ~ Part V<br>_

Never had I danced as I did that night. In my youth, dances had been associated with stiff robes, irritating, flirtatious maidens, and poorly-hidden attempts by the lords of court to marry their daughters off to me. That night was entirely different. The music was fiery and playful, worlds apart from the stately waltzes I had grown to hate, and the accompanying steps were just as wild. Nerdanel knew all of them; she never once missed a beat. I responded to her as best I could, not knowing what to do, but somehow, I did not feel awkward. We were of one mind and one soul, she and I, our movements flowing into each other, creating something beautiful. By the end of it, I was breathless and trembling with exertion, but never could I recall being so blissfully happy.

My exhilaration lasted only until we departed the city and walked out onto the hill of Túna. The torchlight fell away behind us, the stars came to the fore, and a full chorus of crickets sang from the grass. The world could not have been more peaceful, more _right_.

Nerdanel's next words, however, froze my blood.

"The boys should all be home by now, I would think."

Of all those from whom I ought to beg forgiveness, my seven sons ranked most highly. They had suffered most and longest from the legacy of ruin I bound them to, right to the very end. There was nothing I could say or do to make reparations for that, for the full measure of devotion they gave to my fruitless quest. Nothing could erase their pain or their despair, even now.

"Do they hate me?" I murmured, with bitter self-loathing.

Nerdanel turned in the middle of the path and laid a hand on my chest, halting me. "Do not ever think so," she said, low and fierce. "At any moment, they could have forsworn the Oath and consigned themselves to the Everlasting Darkness. Believe me, I know there were times when they found it at an attractive alternative. But they carried on - not out of a desire for the Silmarilli, not out of fear of the Void, but out of love and loyalty to you. They could not stand to fail you, certainly not after your death. All they wanted was to fulfill the Oath and give you peace."

_There is no peace in the Void, my brave ones, _I thought, my throat constricting painfully. _We all learned that before long. Dear Lord, how desperate must you have been, to wish for that place as a respite from your vow?_

I shook my head, unable to speak, hating myself.

Nerdanel took my hands and looked kindly into my face.

"If ever they did hate you," she said, "it was for dying and leaving them, and nothing else."

Fierce love for my family kindled within me. I drew Nerdanel close, my arms encircling her waist. She laid her hands on my shoulders and rested her head in the hollow at the base of my neck.

"I will never leave you again. I swear it."

I kissed her brow to seal my promise, and she smiled. "I shall hold you to it."

I had made another oath, just as I had that first day in the Gardens of the Reborn, when I had sworn to Eru that I would never again take life for granted. I knew better than most the consequences of such vows, and yet, I was unafraid. With my family as my anchor, I knew I could keep both of my vows, and I knew they would bring healing rather than harm.

There was never a more welcoming sight than that of the house in which Nerdanel and I had raised our children. Little about it had changed; it was as small and charming as ever. Ivy climbed the trellises leaning against the side walls, draping over the railing of the porch that encircled the building. A simple stone bench and a fountain of similar style, the first works I had attempted without the guidance of Lord Aulë or Mahtan, sat beside the bright flowerbeds. Silver lights to match those in Tirion were strung from the roof-eaves, and two lanterns hung on hooks flanking the steps to the front door.

I leaned against the faded gate-post for a moment and closed my eyes, breathing in the familiar smells of dew-damp grass, blossoming flowers, freshly-tilled earth, and burning lamps. It was all so real, so vivid, and yet I could scarcely believe I was truly home at last. It was like a beautiful dream from which I would wake to find myself back in the choking dark of the Void. It seemed too fine a gift to be given to one such as I.

Nerdanel watched me a moment in silence, then said softly, "Are you ready?"

Regrets and sorrows welled up within me, and I forced them viciously aside. No, I was not ready. I would never be ready to meet the ones I had wronged above all others, but I would meet them all the same. I loved them too much to stay away any longer.

"No, but I must do this. I shall find neither peace nor happiness if I do not."

"They will be overjoyed to see you," said Nerdanel, and led me inside.

The house was dim as we entered, the lamps burning low. Even so, the warmth of the place was undeniable. With the funds at my disposal as a crown prince, Nerdanel and I could easily have lived in a palace of our own, but I had always found such dwellings cold and uninviting, as had she. Thus we had both chosen a simpler, more modest home on the edge of Tirion, away from the backbiting politics of the royal square, and never once had we regretted it. My feelings had not changed. A few pieces of furniture had been moved, perhaps, and Nerdanel seemed to have added a number of sculptures to her collection of works, but other than that, the house was as welcoming as ever. The plain kitchen table, the wrought-iron chandelier, the deep armchairs before the stone fireplace... All evoked memories of light and laughter, and happiness so complete I could scarcely believe it had been real. I stood for a moment gazing into the deep orange embers in the living room hearth, silently swearing to my family another vow:

_Those days shall be renewed. You shall live in joy as great as that which you once knew, and greater still._

I wondered, strangely, if the rail of the staircase next to the front door, that which led to the bedrooms, was still loose. Most likely it still was. I had meant to fix it, but then I had been exiled, and my life had spiraled out of control.

_Never again, my dearest ones.  
><em>

I perched myself on the edge of the kitchen table, closing my eyes and breathing deep the smell of fresh-baked bread.

Eru, it was good to be home.

I felt Nerdanel sit down beside me. "Keep your eyes closed," she said, and popped an apple pastry into my mouth. It was still warm from the oven, and spiced with sugar and cinnamon. The filling had the sweet-sour flavor that only ripe apples can achieve. It tasted like summer.

"I made them as a treat for the boys for solstice, but they were too hot to eat earlier. I know how you like them."

I could hear her affectionate smile in her voice. I returned it as I swallowed and licked the last of the filling from my lips. "Your cooking is as fine as ever, my dear."

She laughed gently. "Good. I could teach you a thing or two."

There was a moment of contented silence, our hands twined, and then my gaze was drawn to the softly burning lamp which sat behind us on the table. It was wrought of a dark grey metal, out of which various elegant curves and spirals had been cut, so that when the flame passed through, it cast dancing patterns over the wood. It seemed quite old.

"Is that one of mine?" I asked. "Why do you not use a lampstone?"

"Firelight is so much more pleasing than the cold, blue glow of your stones, if more impractical. But yes, the lamp is of your making. It was one of your last creations, before the Silmarilli and the Noldorin succession obsessed you. Ambarto lit it this morning, saying that from now on, it would burn on the anniversary of your return to us. He did not know you would be arriving tonight, of course, and yet he was so certain of it... I confess I did not have quite as much faith."

"A child's innocence can teach us many things, faith being one."

Nerdanel smiled warmly, looking towards the stairs in the front hall.

"Speaking of children, my love, we appear to have woken two of them."

I followed her gaze and beheld two young men clad in white nightclothes, both rubbing sleep from their eyes, their russet curls tousled. Each was the very image of the other, and yet even know, I had no difficulty in telling them apart - Pityafinwë Ambarussa was on the right, and Telufinwë Ambarto was on the left. They had both been returned to life at a young age; neither could be much past his majority.

"Atto?" said Ambarto drowsily, as though believing me to be a figment of his dreams.

My chest tightened, and in my mind I saw them both dead in the white streets of Sirion, lying very close together as they would in sleep.

"Hello, my dear ones," I said softly, kneeling down.

An incredulous silence fell, and for a moment, I was horribly certain that both twins would flee from me in terror.

Nerdanel must have sensed the sick roiling of my gut, for she laid a hand on my shoulder and said, "Your father returned from Mandos earlier this evening. Come, say hello. Give him a proper welcome."

The twins glanced at me, then at each other, as if silently agreeing that I was real. Then, with a cry of "Atto!" they both ran into the kitchen and flung themselves into my arms. The force with which they struck me knocked me onto my back, but it did not deter me from gathering them into my arms and kissing every inch of their faces.

"I missed you," Ambarto murmured, nuzzling his head into my shoulder.

"As did I," said Ambarussa from my other side.

"And I you, my darlings," I managed past the lump in my throat, ruffling their hair fondly. "You have been ever in my thoughts. This is exactly how I hoped to find you. You have been happy, I trust?"

"We've been into all sorts of mischief!" said Ambarussa proudly.

"A few days ago we locked that horrible old tutor of Maitimo's in his study!" added his twin, earning a glare from Nerdanel that was only half angry.

"But now that you're back with us, we shall have even more fun!"

"Of course we shall," I laughed. "I trust you have discovered all sorts of new hiding places since last I saw you."

The twins' eyes lit up at once.

"Can we play capture the flag?" asked Ambarto eagerly.

"Not tonight, love. 'Tis much too late, and too dark, but I promise you a game very soon."

The two nestled closer to me. Each kissed my cheek in turn, whispering, "I love you, Atto."

My heart soared as I replied, "I love you, my little ones."

They seemed inclined to fall asleep in my arms, and no doubt they would have, had not our joyous laughter roused the rest of my sons, and brought them all to stand in the kitchen doorway.

They were exactly as they had been in my happiest memories. Curufinwë was the very image of myself in the first years after my majority, down to the sweep of his ebony bangs and the light burning in his keen silver eyes. Carnistir was as dark and intent as ever, at first surly at being woken so late, but gradually his face relaxed into a wider grin than I had yet seen there. Tyelkormo was still more a Vanya than a Noldo in appearance, his eyes as blue as clear water and his skin tanned nut-brown by the sun.

Maitimo and Macalaurë stood apart from the other three, the younger leaning lightly upon the elder. Their eyes alone belied the suffering they had endured, for these looked distinctly old, and the joy in them was tempered with ancient, unhealable hurts. The shadow of his torment in Angband was yet in Maitimo's face, if I looked carefully enough. Macalaurë especially was rather paler and thinner than he ought to have been, and I knew why; I had been shown it in the Void: after Maitimo's death, he had wandered the seashores for Eru only knew how long, lost in his own grief and regret, suffering in endless pain as the world altered around him. What had brought him home at last, I did not know, but I was so glad that it had.

One by one, they came to my side and knelt down, the great shaggy figure of Huan trotting behind them like an escort. None of them spoke. Nothing could be said. Nothing was sufficient.

At last, Maitimo took my hands in his - both of his - and said in a soft, broken voice, "We tried, Atar. We tried so very hard."

He bowed his head, tears trailing down his cheeks. I felt my heart crack and bleed for him.

I opened my arms, and he came obediently to me, stretching out on his side so that his head rested on my chest. I tucked my arms about him and stroked his rich copper curls, shushing him gently as his tears began to soak into my robes.

"I know you did, dearest one," I said thickly. "I know you did. It was I who failed you, not the inverse. It was I who ran foolishly to my death and left you with an impossible quest, rather than blessing you for what you had done and releasing you from your task. I knew, too, that you would never succeed. I knew it, and yet I bound you to my war nonetheless. Dear Lord, what was I thinking? There is absolutely no forgiveness for that."

Even in the Void, I do not think I ever loathed myself more than I did in that moment. No, there was no forgiveness for binding my children, whom I had loved beyond all else, to a fruitless quest which claimed six of their lives and left the seventh to a fate worse than death.

Eru, it drove my eldest to suicide.

"We have all forgiven you," said Maitimo, "have we not?"

His brothers nodded silently, gravely, and this was too much. I would have felt better had he spat venomous words of hatred at me. At least then I would have gotten what I deserved, and not been left with a terrible feeling that my sons' love was the last thing I warranted.

I drew Maitimo close, tears choking my own voice as I said, "I am so sorry, my dear, precious children. So desperately sorry. It is not enough, but I can say nothing else."

I broke off, my shoulders shaking. Maitimo shifted himself so that his arms were wrapped protectively around me, so that I became the child and he the father. Macalaurë was at my side as well, his presence calm and gentle, his hand rubbing circles on my shoulder. Huan came and licked my hands, which were limp and useless in my lap.

"That is all over and done with now," said Macalaurë in his practical, soothing way. "You are home. We are home. We are together. Nothing else matters."

"We feared it would come to this," said Tyelkormo, shaking his head. "We tried to reach you while we were in Mandos, and again when we returned home, but we were never able to break through. Had we managed it, we might have reassured you that we bore you no hatred, and prevented this..."

"You should hate me," I gasped between sobs. "If you had any sense, you would hate me for what I did to you!"

"Shh..." Maitimo murmured. "We never hated you. We realized very quickly that our father, our true father, died with Haru Finwë. The man who made the Oath and bound us to it... That was not you. That was a demon of some sort, born of grief and rage. We separated the two of you, turned our hatred to the thing that Morgoth made you, and fought on for the Fëanáro we remembered, the one who had shown us nothing but love since the day we were born. We all loathed the quest, of course, but we would have endured it and more if it had meant laying your soul to rest."

This did not soothe me; in fact, it made me weep harder.

"That only tells me how desperate and miserable you were in the end, when you both surrendered your Silmarilli! Eru, Nelyo, you cast yourself into a burning chasm!"

He had no argument to counter this. Maitimo was nearly as fine an orator as myself, and had he had any sort of refutation to offer, he never would have allowed silence to fall.

"I... The Oath turned me into something that frightened me," he said at last, very softly. "In my madness, I thought that the fire would somehow cleanse me of my sins... Atar, please, let us not speak of this now. It will only upset you."

We would have to speak of it eventually, I knew. If we did not, it would lay between us forever, just as the Helcaraxë lay between my half-brother and me.

But perhaps he was right. Tonight was not the night.

Emotionally drained, overwhelmed, and exhausted by all I had experienced since my departure from Mandos, I laid my head down and wept quietly into Maitimo's shoulder.

Huan nudged my side, whining anxiously. The twins rested their heads on my shoulders and Curufinwë propped himself against my side; Carnistir sat stoically with my hands in his; Macalaurë kept his fingers twined in my hair, softly humming the beginnings of a song; Maitimo held me tightly as my own father would. All conveyed to me the forgiveness and love that could not be put into words, and I felt the icy shard of pain in my heart begin to melt.

"Do not weep, Atar," said Curufinwë. There was a gentle command in his voice, which was so very like mine that I could not help but smile.

Brushing at my cheeks, I composed myself with a tremendous effort.

"You are right, dear one. This is no time for tears. Come, give me your hands, all of you."

They did so, laying their hands atop mine, some hard and calloused, some soft and smooth. Even Huan put forth one of his paws. I looked into all of their faces, saw the hope that even the suffering of their pasts could not extinguish. It lifted my spirits more than anything they could have said. Yes, the halcyon days of their youth would yet be renewed. To my last breath at the world's ending, I would ensure that they lived in happiness greater than any they had known before.

"I promise you," I said, "that I will never leave you again, and as long as I am here, you shall live in nothing but joy. I lost sight of it once, but I see now that you are my true treasures, more precious than any work of my hands. I shall never forget it. If there is anything I may do to prove my love for you, and to right in some small way the wrongs I dealt you, I beg you, ask. Know that I love you all so much, more than life itself."

They each returned the sentiment, their voices overlapping and stilling the black wave of anguish that had risen within me. I could not possibly have felt more blessed than I did then, with my sons resting comfortingly against me. I could feel each of their steady pulses, especially Maitimo's, which beat beneath my cheek.

I cast a glance at Nerdanel, whose green eyes were suspiciously liquid as well, though a warm smile brightened every inch of her face. She gave me an approving nod and a tilt of her head which said plainly_, I told you so_.

"All right, little ones," she said gently. "It is late, your father is tired, and so are you, I suspect. You have many more beautiful days ahead of you in which to reacquaint yourselves. For now, all of you need your rest."

There was a collective noise of protest from my seven sons, and I felt the twins tighten their arms around me. I was indeed exhausted, but I would gladly have stayed up for what remained of the night talking with them all, and hearing of the adventures they had had since their rebirths.

"Istyë, please, let them stay with me, if they wish."

"I wish!" announced Ambarussa, to indulgent chuckles from his elder brothers.

Nerdanel did not need much convincing. She attempted to look stern for a moment, but the light sparkling in her eyes betrayed her.

"Very well, then," she said. "Go on upstairs, all of you, and bring down your pillows and blankets. Tonight, we shall sleep side by side."

The boys were most efficient, forming a very comfortable nest of quilts on our living room floor, settling themselves so that all of them were close to me. It was not long before each one sank into slumber. Their breathing slowed and lengthened, the moonlight touching their faces and smoothing the hard, aristocratic lines. Nerdanel's head lay on my shoulder with a gentle pressure, one arm draped lazily across my chest. Maitimo lay on my other side, facing me, conveying protective vigilance even with his eyes closed. The peace in the room was absolute.

"Don't you dare, Atar," he said into the quiet.

"Don't I dare what, Nelyo?" I asked drowsily, not opening my eyes.

"Don't you dare punish yourself any more. I cannot stand to see you in pain."

I could not promise him that. I could not promise him that I believed he and his brothers had never borne me anything but love, for deep within me, I suspected their forgiveness was not as absolute as they would say. I could not even promise him that I had always loved him absolutely, for there had been moments on the march to Beleriand when I feared that any one of my sons might slit my throat in my sleep. What I could promise him was that I loved him absolutely now, and that I was quite certain that that fact would never again be altered.

"I shall do my utmost to be happy, dearest one," I said.

Sleep encroached quickly upon me after that, stilling my turbulent emotions, slowing my heartbeat. My last conscious sight was of the lamp on the kitchen table, burning low but steadily with the last beautiful flares of dying embers. It was quite appropriate, I thought. I had died in a similar way, burning to ashes upon Dor Daedeloth, and I had risen again, just as the sun rose each morning, just as the lamp would be re-lit next year on Midsummer's Eve.

It would take time for my flame to regain its full strength, perhaps. It would burn at the heart of a lamp soot-blackened and damaged by time, irrevocably in some places, and on occasion it would flicker, but it would be all the more beautiful for its imperfections, and all the more inspiring for its struggle.

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><p><span>Author's Notes<br>

Elves don't age like humans, but for reference, the twins are about 17 or so, Curufin and Caranthir are around 21-22, Celegorm is in his mid-twenties, and Maglor and Maedhros are in their late twenties.


	9. Rekindling - Part I

_**I know this is marked AU in the description, but a character introduced does deviate more wildly from canon than anything I've yet proposed, except possibly Nerdanel's Vanguard. Just a warning. I think you'll like her, though. :)  
><strong>_

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><p><em>Rekindling ~ Part I<br>_

My veins were filled with fire.

A Valaraukan blade was lodged in my stomach, searing my organs and setting my blood aflame. Ai, the pain - nothing had prepared me for it, and nothing compared to it! My mouth was open in a scream of pure, exquisite agony, and yet no sound came forth; all breath had been driven from my body.

Above me leered the face of Gothmog. His furnace-fire eyes bored into mine, and his terrible voice, harsh as the scraping of steel, filled my mind.

_Have you any last words, foolish Noldo?_

For once, I could not summon a shred of defiance.

_Dear Lord, let it end! Death would be a mercy compared to this!_

The demon withdrew his blade slowly, ever so slowly, allowing me to feel every blazing inch of it, and then pulled back for a final blow.

"Fëanáro, you must wake! 'Tis a nightmare, beloved, and nothing more!"

Through a haze of pain, I recognized that warm, rich voice: it belonged to my wife. But it could not be. She was lost to me, far away in Valinor. She had abandoned me.

The flame-blade swung down, and something hot shot through me from head to toe, and then -

All around me, there was light.

I was lying in a tangle of blankets on the floor of our living room, my body arched as though Gothmog's sword truly had just been driven into it. Nerdanel was at my side, her hair tousled from sleep, her hands firmly clasping my shoulders. My sons were clustered just behind her, drowsy-eyed but anxious. The ashen slopes of Dor Daedeloth had been replaced by cream-colored carpet and wood-paneled walls.

Cold sweat sheened my skin, and I let myself collapse in relief. So it had been a dream.

The silence in the room was suddenly thunderous. I blinked up at each of my sons in turn just as I had after my last battle. My head was cradled in Maitimo's lap, just as then.

"Atto...?" said Ambarto hesitantly.

"It was Gothmog, was it not?" asked Nerdanel. "I thought it must have been, from the sound of your screams." She stroked my cheek, the pain in her eyes as intense as though it had been she whom the Valaraukar slew. "I cannot stand to hear you scream."

I reached up and squeezed her hand. "Fear not, love. If we meet again when the Last Battle comes, I shall kill him. I shall have my vengeance. I shall have retribution for both our sufferings."

She smiled, the fire of war in her face. "With time and training, I believe you shall."

I certainly would. I had no intentions of screaming myself awake every morning from now until the world's ending and perhaps after, while Gothmog slew me in my dreams.

My fervor lasted but a moment. One of my sleeves had been rolled back with my writhing, baring my arm to the elbow. I noticed then for the first time the white burn scars that wrapped the limb, exactly where a Valaraukan whip had cracked through my armor. So my _hröa _had not been restored to me entirely unmarred. I had been left with a gentle reminder from the Allfather and Lord Námo, it seemed, of what happened to fools who challenged powerful enemies to single combat.

I drew my sleeve back over the mark of my shameful, overweening pride and sat up, drawing to myself all the dignity one can manage upon waking from a nightmare.

"Forgive me if I woke you," I said with an apologetic dip of my head.

"Oh, 'tis long past time for us to be rising as it is," said Nerdanel. "'Tis past noon, and it would not do for us to sleep away this most special Midsummer's Day, would it?" She brushed my bangs back from my brow and pressed a kiss there.

"It certainly would not!" came a voice from my right side, a high, child's voice that was and was not familiar. "If you truly wish to celebrate, milady, you will send messengers to Formenos and invite its people to greet their high prince. They shall make this a lively day indeed!"

Nerdanel rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and cast me a significant glance which was entirely lost on me.

"Goodness knows you keep things lively enough on your own," she said, her smile hardening ever so slightly. "Fëanáro, permit me to introduce she whom we call Fëarillë, though you do know her, in a way."

From behind me, Maitimo's hand tightened compulsively on my shoulder. He glanced darkly at Macalaurë.

I turned to my right and beheld the source of the voice, a little girl, slender as a wood-sprite. She was clad in a knee-length dress whiter than snow, trimmed delicately with gold at the hem and sleeves. A strange maturity and haughtiness underlay the childish features of her face, and there was wisdom in her eyes utterly at odds with her youth. Her hair was of pure spun silver at first glance, yet when the light of Anar fell upon it, golden gleams flickered to life within it. The two colors blended to produce a shade indescribable as anything but mingled Treelight.

My heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. The eyes of my younger self were blinking innocently at me from out of this unearthly girl's face.

Not only that, but there was a faint glow about her which I would have recognized anywhere, though I had not seen it in ages, a glow of indescribable beauty that had only ever been attributed to one work - three works, to be precise.

She was a Silmaril. _She was a living, breathing, Silmaril_.

Maitimo's reaction suddenly made all too much sense. He needed no reminders of those cursed jewels and what they had cost us, and nor did I. It was an ironic twist of fate indeed - the objects that had once obsessed me above all others were now the objects I loathed most.

My hand clenched itself into a fist, almost unconsciously, as memories of blood and fire and death rose to the surface. At the same moment, a profound sadness overtook Fëarillë's face.

"I missed you," she said tentatively, all of her former arrogance gone from her voice.

"Who is she?" I asked Nerdanel. I could not keep an edge of hardness from my voice, nor a hint of fear - fear that I would be seduced by the ethereal glow of the Silmarilli once again, and lose sight of was truly precious.

My distress must have been obvious to her, for she held up a hand in a silent gesture for peace.

"We believe she is an incarnation of the fragment of your soul and the bit of Treelight that you captured in the Silmarilli. She has pride and impudence in her to match your own, and she can be rather reckless at times, but her abilities have been of great aid to us."

Fëarillë smiled smugly. "Yes, I believe they have." Eru, she _did _possess a part of my soul!

Nerdanel cast her a sharp look and went on. "Like the Valar and Maiar, she can shed her physical form and render herself invisible to elven eyes. In her case, she guises herself in light, which allows her to eavesdrop on practically anything and bring important information back to your supporters. She can kill in a split-second, and without leaving a mark on the enemy - it is true, for I have seen it, though I can make no sense of it. Besides that, Fëanáro, she is the reason I am alive."

"How so?" I asked, still wary.

Nerdanel's shoulders stiffened, as though she was bracing herself against the pain of the past.

"I sat helpless as my husband and my sons were taken from me, one by one," she said. There was sorrow in her voice, but it was scoured by the same strength I had sensed in her when first we reunited, strength forged and honed in suffering. "'Twas my foolish thought that I could endure it alone, and for a brief while, I did. In the end, though, it overcame me. I went to your forge, thinking to find some remnant of your presence lingering there and take comfort in it, but I sensed nothing. I remember that I brushed my hand over the anvil, and it was so cold, so very cold... It struck me then how truly lost to me you were, all of you. For a time I had clung to the thought that not even death could conquer love, but at that moment, it seemed that it had. It broke me. It broke me in one swift, brutal stroke. Little Fëarillë, who had been hiding in the light from the one window that was not shuttered, found me. The part of her that is you loves me, you see, and she tried to comfort me. She held me for a long while, and after I had stopped weeping enough to speak, I told her everything - all that had happened to you and to our sons, how far you had fallen, how I could not decide whether I hated or loved you and how it was tearing me apart. She knew it all, of course - she knows everything that goes on in this family and then some - but she listened. It was wonderful to have someone listen. I had been shunned by most as the wife and mother of kinslayers, and by others as a poor, mad soul bound for eternal sleep in Lórien. She treated me as a friend. The healing in that alone was incredible. When I had told all I could, I thought she might sympathize with me, give me her pity and her comfort. She did neither."

She paused, allowing this unexpected statement its impact. She and Fëarillë exchanged disconcerting smiles.

"She did not tell me what I wished to hear. She told me what I needed to hear. She neither shared my grief nor offered me comfort. She said simply, 'What do you mean to do about it?'"

Fëarillë folded her small arms over her chest and said proudly, "It worked."

"Aye, it did, I grant you," said Nerdanel, gently touching the girl's shining hair. "No doubt it inflated your pride even further, but it did work. It startled me enough to distract me from my anguish and open my mind to your plans. 'Twas you who first suggested to me that I could fight, and somehow, I believed you. You are quite as much an orator as my husband, little one. You see, Fëanáro, the _Treatise of Truth _and the Vanguard were this insolent child's ideas, and with her exceptional abilities as a spy, she helped me through the political maneuvering necessary to bring both to reality. She was your voice. She stirred your supporters and made them believe you were not lost to them, that there was still honor to be found in your house and your cause. She made them proud once more to be followers of Fëanáro. When the Vanguard helped to defeat Sauron in the Second Age and the Third, hope flared anew in the Noldor. Morgoth had been vanquished, now his greatest lieutenant. There was yet strength and courage in us. We who had once been kinslayers were now heroes. I was hailed as the Phoenix of the Noldor, but in truth, the title belongs to Fëarillë. Had she not told me what she did that day in your forge, had she not turned my grief to hate and given it direction, I might well now be asleep in Lórien, never to wake again."

Gratitude to the little Treelight spirit welled up within me, and love. It was difficult to understand that it had been a part of myself which had helped save my wife and redeem my people, a part entirely independent of my control. It reminded me, frighteningly, of the Oath, and how it had grown to such power that it took on a will of its own. Yet...the ruin that had been wrought by the Silmarilli was ours, not hers. She could not help but be beautiful and entrancing, for that was how she was made. It was we who had allowed ourselves to be seduced by her power. Permitted to act of her own accord, it seemed she had done naught but good. There was nothing innately malicious in her.

Fëarillë looked at me pleadingly, her silver eyes - _my eyes_ - begging me accept her for what she was: a part of me, the innocence of my younger years and the brilliance of my elder ones.

I allowed her to climb into my lap and tip her head back against my chest.

_She did not burn me. _

She should have. The Silmarilli had burned Maitimo and Macalaurë when they retrieved them, and my misdeeds were quite as grave as theirs, yet...yet there was no pain. I must indeed, then, have been purged of my sins when I stood in judgment before the Allfather. Ai, never again would I doubt His power!

"Why have I never seen you before, little one?" I asked her, still wondering at the infinite grace of Eru.

"Fëanáro, I love you," she said. "I _am _you. When you are harmed, so am I. Had I been free from the beginning, I would certainly have tried to stop certain..._things_...from happening, certain things that needed to happen. The Eldar learned a great deal from the wars of the First Age, and had they not fought in them, they would not now have the knowledge they need to confront Moringotto when he rises again. So, the Allfather prevented me from interfering until your people were taught what was necessary."

She paused, and her eyes hardened.

"Do not believe for a moment that I wished to burn your sons..._my _sons. I would far rather have turned the flame of Yavanna's holy light upon the armies of the Dark Lord."

Unfortunate as it was, it made sense. Had the Eldar never known suffering and war, we would not now be prepared for the Last Battle. I knew all too well that there was nothing like true combat to lay bare all one's strengths and flaws.

"Of course not," I said softly. "I understand. You have done us great service since then, and I bear you no ill will."

She turned and wrapped her arms around my waist, nuzzling her head into my chest. "I only ever wanted you back with us, and now you are. I am so glad."

"As am I, little one. But if you are here...is there now no light in the Silmarilli?"

"Of course there is," said the spirit matter-of-factly, extracting herself from me. "When I manifest this way, I draw out but a bit of the Treelight in the Silmarilli. It would hardly be responsible of me to release their full power, given that it is capable of remaking the world."

A stunned silence fell, and Fëarillë clapped her hands to her mouth with a muffled, "Oh, dear."

Nerdanel stood hastily, silently encouraging us all to forget what had just been said. I cast her a questioning glance, and she shook her head tersely. She understood no more than I did, it seemed.

"Your father sent a message this morning; he wishes to have dinner with us tonight," she said. Her tone was cheerful enough, but there was something distinctly unsettled beneath it. "I do not think any of you will object, but I had best busy myself; it would not do for me to have nothing prepared."

She strode purposefully from the room, leaving me to seek an explanation from Fëarillë.

She was nowhere to be seen. This gave me the distinct and rather discomfiting impression that she was everywhere at once, wherever there was light.

_The Silmarilli, capable of remaking the world? Capable of reviving the Two Trees, yes, but **the world**?_

What did she know that was hidden from the rest of us?

That night, all thoughts of Fëarillë's ominous pronouncement were driven from my mind, for it was the finest night I have ever known. We took our supper on picnic blankets in the open grass to the side of the house, a field of heather before us, the soothing noises of the woods behind us, and the dome of the sky above us. Nerdanel's meal was a simple one, but it felt as though I had never tasted better food: slices of fresh bread and cheese, a salad topped with strawberries and slivers of roasted chestnuts, bunches of grapes and slices of watermelon, apple pastries warmed over the stove, and delightfully sour iced lemonade. She was rather embarrassed at being caught unawares and not having anything finer to offer her king, but Atar laid a hand on her shoulders in his good-natured way and said, "Daughter of my heart, your cooking is more satisfying than any five-course meal served at the palace. It is a refreshing change from all the formality, I assure you. In fact, I much prefer it."

There is something liberating about sprawling in summer grass with a chilled drink balanced in your hand, occasionally popping grapes in your mouth and laughing with wild abandon at whatever strikes you as funny. Maitimo, who had been practicing his shorthand by transcribing council meetings at the palace, had any number of stories to tell, all of which were highly amusing. He was as candid and engaging in his storytelling as he had been in my memories, and he spared no details.

"Well, Lord Nólaheru did not take kindly to the things Lord Turindo was saying about you," he was saying, "and ere long, the greater part of the council was engaged in the most spectacular brawl I have seen since the last time the Fëanárions fought the Nolofinwëans in Marillë's bar."

"_That _was glorious," Nerdanel interjected, nudging me. "We won, of course."

"I do worry that a great deal of insanity has been done in the name of my honor," I told her, half serious, half joking.

"Oh, it has, but there have been no kinslayings, and that is an achievement."

Maitimo went on hurriedly before I could think about this too much.

"Near the end of it, there had been any number of bets laid as to who would knock the other senseless, Nólaheru or Turindo," he said, "but as it was, the fighting ended with both of them standing. You see, I was hardly about to sit idly by while Turindo pronounced you a madman fit only for the Void, Atar, so I -"

"You did not draw steel, did you?" I asked sharply.

"Of course not! You taught me well not to do that! In truth, I had no other weapons than my quill and my ink bottle, and after a moment's deliberation, I settled upon the latter and hurled it across the room, intending it for Turindo, of course. It missed and struck the wall just next to Nolofinwë, and though he was not harmed by the shattering glass, the sound of it reduced everyone to silence. This gave Tyelkormo the perfect stage upon which to announce that, with his face splattered with black, your half-brother looked quite like a raccoon."

I nearly choked on the drink of lemonade I had just taken and fell back on the blanket, laughing so loudly that I was certain they must have heard me in Tirion.

"You see, Atar? These are the things you miss when you lose your life challenging large groups of Valaraukar," said Tyelkormo, nocking an arrow in his crossbow and sending it neatly into the center of the nearest tree trunk. I gave him a half-hearted swat on the arm.

"Your third-born has your sense of wit and theatrics," said my father genially, with a nod of approval to Tyelkormo. "Still, it was good he said it when he did. The council found it so amusing that they forgot the fight at once. I would not have liked to explain to explain to the Valar in my monthly report that my Chief Adviser and my Minister of Finances had knocked each other unconscious on my council floor. As it was, I was able to...let the matter pass."

There was a twinkle in Atar's eye which told me he had quite enjoyed the whole thing.

I looked up at him accusingly. "You are not so proper as you once led me to believe!"

"Oh, goodness, no. I come from Cuiviénen, _yonya_. I was wild ere this place tamed my exterior, and I assure you that I am still quite wild at heart."

"Good. You can protect me from any more treacherous lords," I said, laying my head in his lap and closing my eyes as Macalaurë took up a song on his lute. It was a lively, comical duet that I knew from an opera of long ago. Maitimo joined in on his little wooden flute. Tyelkormo's arrows began to strike the trees at regular intervals, each in time with the beat of the song. I heard Nerdanel's voice rise in harmony with Macalaurë's. Her voice was low, but rich and beautiful. I had never known she could sing.

"_Y__onya_, I feel I must present you to the royal court at some sort of feast," said Atar, somewhat apologetically. "I know you dislike those sorts of things, but it is only proper that you are officially reinstated as High Prince of the Noldor. It will give your supporters some sense of stability as well, and perhaps a chance for you to show your enemies that you are not the man you were. Speaking of which, the Telerin ambassador sent a message this morning... There has never been a formal peace between the Noldor and the Teleri, and she and the Princess Eärwen wish to address this with you. Such a feast would be a perfect time to lay the ghost of Alqualondë to rest at last..."

I scarcely registered the beginning of this suggestion, much less the end. Drowsiness was encroaching rapidly upon me, and nothing could intrude upon the peace it brought, the peace of that night.

I fell asleep to the gentle pressure of the twins' heads on my chest, and a wish that it would never end.

* * *

><p>Fëarillë's name means "Spirit of Brilliance." I thought it fitting for her and appropriately close to Fëanor's own name. You will be seeing more of her in the future, and you'll get to know her and her abilities better. Regarding her existence, I take the line from the Silmarillion where Fëanor says he will break his heart if he must break the Silmarils very literally. I believe there is a part of his soul in those jewels, and Fëarillë is the manifestation of it.<p> 


	10. Rekindling - Part II

**_To Toraach ~ I was waiting for someone to ask those two questions, because I've been fighting with them both myself since I started this project. As to Fëanor's sons returning as children/young adults, it's meant to be a physical representation of the innocence and reconciliation they've regained through their rebirths, as well as to create the feeling that they've recaptured the happiness of the youth of their former lives. Of course, they're not completely healed yet, but they're well on their way. As to Celebrimbor, I also intend to have him reborn as a small child, which puts him in an awkward situation given that his father is quite young at this point. I suspect he's going to be raised by Finwë in the palace for the time being, but I'm open to suggestions (as long as they don't involve changing the Fëanorians' young ages; I definitely want that device to be there).  
><em>**

**_Warning for a non-graphic discussion of the First Kinslaying that may nevertheless raise some controversy._**

* * *

><p><em>Rekindling ~ Part II<br>_

A few weeks after my return, Tirion was swept up and scandalized by a dark, brilliant drama put on by members of the Vanguard. Each night, they withdrew to an abandoned barn on the edge of Túna which they called the Lantern Theatre, its roof rusting and its walls stained dark with countless rains, to perform another installment of the tale. Never before had a live production been serialized as such, but the tactic was effective. Each night, larger and larger crowds gathered at the old barn, and they left debating in louder and louder voices as to what would likely happen next. I was no exception. Violent though the story was, I loved it: each time I thought I had worked it out, it took an unexpected twist that shattered all of my theories. I could not resist the intellectual challenge it presented.

The purpose of the production, I guessed, was to satirize the political turmoil and scheming that had taken place after the Darkening of Valinor. The plot centered upon three Noldorin princesses, all of whom were suspected, by some faction or another, to have murdered their father in a bid for his throne. I myself did not believe that any of them were guilty, but certain members of the princesses' court did not agree; each young lady had already had to dodge attempts at poisoning, stabbing, and drowning.

Little had I suspected, sitting there upon the dew-damp grass before the barn doors, that the tale would soon take on especial relevance, nor that my life would figure at the center of a political drama played out in the halls of Tirion.

* * *

><p>I wished dearly, in those weeks, that I had not been falling asleep just as Atar proposed I take part in a ceremony of reinstatement as High Prince of the Noldor, to be followed by a feast. I might not have been so shocked when he returned to my home a few days later to discuss the details with me. As it was, I fought the idea as fiercely as I could, but Atar would not be swayed. He was adamant that I formally and publicly take up my former station, arguing that it would give the people a a return to normalcy. He did not delve into the specifics, but he suggested that politics in Tirion had been unstable for a long while: Arafinwë, Nolofinwë, and Faniel had all ruled prior to Atar's rebirth, and that was not to mention the period Nerdanel had spoken of in which Fëarillë's voice greatly influenced the political climate. I could not disagree on this point, though privately, I had suspicions that my public re-installation as High Prince would only destabilize the city further. I knew well what a polarizing figure I was, and how easily the Noldor could become divided beyond hope of repair.<p>

Still, in spite of my fears, I might have accepted Atar's plan with little argument had he not decided to invite the Princess Eärwen and the ambassador of her court. He was certain that the feast would be a perfect time for me to meet with the two ladies and broker a formal peace between Tirion and Alqualondë, once and for I had reconciled with many others by then, including several of Nolofinwë's closest supporters, I had avoided all contact with the Teleri. The First Kinslaying still haunted my dreams, and I knew of no way to make amends for the slaughter. The last thing I wanted was to meet with two Telerin nobles who likely believed that the only path to peace was to send me back to Mandos.

On this point, Atar was more insistent still. He left me with the impression that his only wish in the world was to see me reonciled with Alqualondë, and I felt that it would break his heart to deny him. King Olwë being dear to him, the long estrangement between the Noldor and the Teleri which followed the Kinslaying must have hurt him deeply. I knew how much it would delight him to see the last remnants of animosity between his people and Olwë's disappear, and I knew how proud he would be if I could be the instrument of that healing.

Atar seemed to have forgotten, however, that I was not a diplomat. Nolofinwë was the statesman, and always had been. I could win practically any argument, and I knew how to manipulate Tirion's politics in my favor, but Nolofinwë could do both without ever angering his opponents. That skill was beyond my knowledge. I could scarcely control my own emotions, much less those of Telerin nobles discussing the event which shattered their people.

The most upsetting thing about it was that Atar's faith in me never wavered - not once, not even slightly. I was certain that I would disappoint him, and when I did, it would hurt me all the more to know how fervently he had believed in me, right up until the moment when I banished his hopes. That was what troubled me most about my rebellion as well: there had been a great number of people who had truly believed that I was leading them to freedom and glory. I had seen it in their eyes as I spoke from the dais in the Court of the King. My words had laid a spell upon them, bringing them visions of wide lands where the waters ran sweet beneath unclouded skies.

And what had I brought them? Ruin. Stigma. Death. No matter how often I was told that the fault was not entirely mine, and no matter how often I heard that the Eldar learned invaluable lessons from that first war - no matter how true these things were - my guilt would never be erased. They had trusted me, and I had led them astray.

Such were my thoughts on the night of the feast (known affectionately to the organizers as "Mereth Aderthad, Act II"). Until then, I had managed to put it largely out of mind and focused my energies on rebuilding my life. I had had a great deal of success as well, in small, satisfying ways: I had reinstated meetings of the Lambengolmor, I had taken on several commissions for ceremonial weaponry, I had rekindled long-lost relationships with my sons, I had reconciled with old friends who had been crusading relentlessly for my honor (some had gone so far as to accept exile when their voices grew too loud and insistent for Tirion's sensibilities). I had been confronted with very little negativity along the way, which had heartened me to no end.

That night, however, I had fallen to such a low place that I doubted anything could cheer me - it was nowhere near the despair I had experienced in the Void, of course, but bad enough. My family and I were lodged in the palace for the evening, and I had locked myself in my bedroom in an effort to quell my nerves and feelings of inadequacy. This was unsuccessful. Despite being surrounded by the objects which had comforted me in my youth - a stuffed bear with his fur fraying in patches, a wooden mockingbird carved by my clumsy childhood hand, a quilt sewn by my mother as final gift to me - I could find no peace. I wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers of my four-poster bed and disappear, and forget that the events of Alqualondë had ever happened.

I realized quickly that this was not likely, and resigned myself to face whatever well-deserved vitriol the Telerin ambassador and the princess might have for me. Eärwen and I had been friends in our youth, but I doubted that any remnant of that had survived the First Kinslaying. If it had, it would not be enough to save me.

I was restless and could not settle to a thing. The only decision I had made by the time the sun began to set was to dress myself in midnight-blue robes with a silver garment beneath, thinking that such colors would be less likely to put the Teleri in mind of blood and fire than my usual scarlet and gold.

Atar found me in the end, as I had privately hoped he would. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands limp in my lap, feeling sick and trying not to tremble. He took in all these things in silence, eyeing me in such a way that I knew he was looking right through me, then crossed to my dresser and withdrew a silver chain strung with little sapphires. Sitting down beside me, he began to fix it to my loosely plaited hair. I closed my eyes, willing myself to be soothed by the gesture and not to feel as though I was being prepared for slaughter.

"'Tis past time for you to make your appearance," he said gently when he had finished, drawing back a foot and smoothing my robes. "The feast began an hour ago. You must look every bit a prince."

"I am not fit to be a prince," I said miserably, "much less a king."

"I am not asking you to be king - not yet, at any rate. I am asking you to confront a demon which you yourself know you cannot avoid forever. Better sooner than late, I should think."

"Nolofinwë is the diplomat, Atar, not I!" I cried, shrugging away from him.

"Nolofinwë does not bear the brunt of the blame for the First Kinslaying, in the eye of the public. Rightly or wrongly, you do," said Atar, firm and grave. "None but you can make this right, little one. You shall feel so very much better when you do."

"Do you truly believe I can make it right?" I knew the answer; I was simply stalling for time.

Atar smiled knowingly, retrieving my prince's coronet from where I had carelessly left it atop my dresser and setting it at my brow.

"Fëanáro, my love, I would never have put you in this position if I believed it would bring you to harm. I know the ambassador, and I know Eärwen. You will be quite pleasantly surprised by what they have to say to you, I think. Trust me as you once did."

I laid my head against his shoulder, wanting to melt into him somehow, into his warmth and his love.

"Can you assure me that I will not fail tonight?"

Atar kissed my brow and drew me gently upright.

"Only you can do that."

* * *

><p>The crowd gathered in Tirion for the festival of Midsummer's Eve had not made me uncomfortable. The throng that filled the great hall certainly did. Deceit and malice seemed to lurk beneath the brocaded robes and jeweled fingers and elegant waltzes and finely-honed courtesies. My hands began to tremble; one of them compulsively clasped Atar's wrist as he led me to my seat at the high table. A vague feeling of dread that had nothing to do with the prospect of the meeting the Telerin princess and her ambassador settled cold in the pit of my stomach.<p>

"Atar, I..." I began, but he held a slender finger to my lips.

"You will be all right," he whispered, squeezing my shoulder and taking up his own seat.

Left to my own devices, I glanced down the table and found Eärwen seated beside Arafinwë, her silver hair gleaming softly in the torchlight, a gown of sea-green adorned with pearls accentuating her slender frame. She caught my gaze and glanced at the maiden sitting on her other side, quite as silver-haired and wearing a gown of cornflower-blue, and then both smiled warmly. I allowed myself to relax a few degrees. For now, at least, it seemed that they had not come here to show me hatred.

What I ate that night, I did not remember afterwards, though I suppose it was excellent, as was everything that came from the palace kitchens. In spite of Nerdanel's comforting presence on my right, I was quite distracted by the prospect of meeting with Eärwen and her ambassador, as well as by the dark looks that Lord Turindo, my father's Minister of Finance, kept shooting at me from a lower table. He had strongly disliked me in my formal life, but there was something more than dislike in his gaze now, and it was not reserved only for me: it seemed to encompass my half-siblings as well, particularly Findis and Faniel. So preoccupied was I by these things that I took but a sip of wine and tasted none of my food; neither did I see Eärwen and her companion as they approached me from behind.

"Good evening and welcome home, Fëanáro," said the princess, dipping me a graceful curtsy.

I stood and made her a bow, trying with all my might not to be awkward. "Good evening, Princess."

"You look very well," she went on. "Life suits you. I never could imagine you a houseless _fëa_, locked away helpless in Mandos. You were always such a lively one, full of light and spirit. Do you remember the evening when we raced each other down the docks at Alqualondë and dove into the sea just as the Mingling set the water ablaze?"

I knew not what I had expected, but it was not that!

I abandoned all propriety. "For Eru's sake, Eärwen, how can you speak as though we are still the two children who ran off together to avoid our minders? I am no longer one of those children! I am a kinslayer!"

"As am I," said Eärwen, smooth and calm as the sea at midnight.

I felt myself take an involuntary step backward.

"You do not mean to say you fought!" I gasped.

"I do indeed. I cannot say that I did very much; I took an arrow in the shoulder early in the fighting, but I do believe that I shot down at least one of your men before then." She gestured to the maiden on her left before I could protest. "Permit me to introduce Her Excellency Helyanwë, Telerin Ambassador to the Noldor. She will explain everything far more eloquently than I can, I am sure. When she has calmed you a bit - I know you, Fëanáro; I can see how nervous you are - the three of us can discuss a formal peace treaty, yes?"

Delicate, innocent Eärwen, a kinslayer? It was almost too incredible to believe. Should I blame myself for it? Had there been no kinslaying, she would never have been forced to defend herself and her people...

Shaking myself viciously from the guilt I was threatening to plunge into, I remembered the courtesies I was expected to observe and made Helyanwë a bow.

"Do you care to dance, Your Excellency?" I asked.

The ambassador smiled brightly and took my arm. "I do indeed."

I led her to a spot in the hall that was more or less unoccupied, and she placed her slender hand on my shoulder. I was almost afraid to take her waist; her skin was like porcelain and she was so delicately built that I feared she might break.

Helyanwë gave a gentle laugh, like the ringing of chimes.

"Do not look so frightened, Prince," she said. "The Princess and I are not here to hurt you, but to tell you that we believe the reconciliation of our peoples is long past due."

"And what brought you to this extraordinary state of grace?" I asked, trying and failing to keep bitter self-loathing from my voice.

"Oh, 'tis quite simple, for those with the open hearts to understand it," said she. "First, know that to this day, no one is certain who or what touched off the First Kinslaying. It was dark, we were frightened, we were grieving, no leader knew what orders to give, the tension in the air was so thick as to be tangible. Perhaps on one side or another, there was a soldier, terrified but eager to do his captain's will, whose hand slipped from his bowstring and loosed an arrow ere he could stop it, and perhaps that arrow buried itself in the chest of a soldier from the other side. Word of his death spread quickly, his compatriots rallied to avenge him, and from there, the fighting spiraled out of anyone's control. Rumors burned back and forth like wildfire: the Teleri drowned King Fëanáro, the Noldor slew King Olwë in his halls; the Teleri shot down a group of Noldorin mothers in the presence of their sons, the Noldor beheaded several Telerin children while their mothers looked on. Confusion, chaos, vengeance. You see? The reality cannot be as simple as, 'Telerin archers fired to defend the ships; Noldorin swordsmen slew them wickedly on the decks.'"

She was right. I had never given orders to kill at Alqualondë, and I very much doubted that Olwë had, either. It was also true that I did not know who had started the fighting, my people or his. I certainly had not come to the city with the intention to slaughter the Teleri. The thought had crossed my mind, especially after Olwë asserted that my father's death had no effect upon his people, and thus he was not obliged to honor his memory by aiding me...but I had not chosen to act upon it. I was forced to it by the sight of my soldiers, heavily armored as they were, being thrown over the docks to drown by Telerin mariners. What had happened in between that sight and my argument with Olwë, I knew not.

"You make a fair point, Excellency," I said, nodding. "Do continue."

"The second thing you must understand, Fëanáro, is that we were all kinslayers that night. Perhaps our cause for killing your people was more noble than your cause for killing ours. I doubt that the Noldor saw it that way. I doubt that the thought of our valiant defense of our property gave any comfort to those who lost loved ones to our arrows. The grief of the Noldor must have been just as raw, just as agonizing as ours. None of us thought of that, of course, but it was true. We all grieved the same way that night. You see? Death has a curious way of making things equal. No doubt each side saw their cause as noble, and in the name of that cause, we were all guilty of taking lives. We were all wrong. The Noldor were not sinless, and neither were the Teleri. Both our peoples need to understand that, and once we do, we can cease waiting for each other to take the first step towards healing and take it together."

Never had I met a maiden with such a transcendent spirit as Helyanwë, and never have I met one since. She had done what I had thought to be impossible, and shifted half of the blame from my people to hers, just as Nolofinwë had done when I reconciled with him my treachery on the Helcaraxë. She saw what most were too blinded by anger and grief to see. Within herself, she had made peace in the truest sense. Would that all peace treaties were so sincere!

"Do you mean to say, Excellency, that one can blame neither the Noldor the Teleri alone for the First Kinslaying?"

"That is exactly what I mean to say. And in your defense, Fëanáro, Olwë was completely tactless when he told you that your father's death had no impact upon the Teleri. Perhaps it was true, but it was utterly wrong to say it to you, knowing how deeply you were grieving. That does not justify your people's actions, of course - nothing can justify them, nor the actions of mine. Nothing justifies murder, not even the defense of our precious ships. Still, when all the pieces of the truth are considered, it does paint a far different picture."

"Why do I feel distinctly that yours was one of the witness accounts published in the _Treatise of Truth_, regarding the First Kinslaying?"

"It was. I have been speaking the message I have just given to you for several ages now, and I have never ceased to believe in it, not even when I was shot by a dissenter for proclaiming it at a peace conference."

"You were shot at a peace conference? That seems to defeat the purpose of such an event!"

Helyanwë laughed her musical laugh. "Yes, t'was rather ironic. I do not blame the man who did it. Telling my people that they are quite as guilty as the Noldor is bound to raise some anger."

I shook my head in amazement. "Excellency, I do believe you are a saint."

"No, Prince, just a humble servant of Eru."

At that moment, Atar stood from his place at the high table, tapping his fork against his wine glass for silence.

"As you are all aware by now," he said, his voice ringing effortlessly through the hall, "my beloved firstborn, Curufinwë Fëanáro, has at last returned from Mandos and rejoined his people. I believe that it is only proper, on this night of unity, that he take anew the vows he made upon his coming-of-age, when he first became your High Prince, and rejoin you in full by assuming that title once more and pledging his duty to you."

A general murmur of assent ran through the hall, mingled with some shouts of approval. Helyanwë drew back from me and curtsied elegantly.

"We can finish this afterwards," she said, smiling warmly. "Welcome home, Prince."

I never reached the high table. I never managed more than a step.

Several things happened in quick succession. I glanced up at my father, saw the boundless love in his eyes, and then my gaze was drawn to Lord Turindo at the lower table, whose face was contorted with an expression of hate so vicious that he hardly seemed an Elda. Dear Eru, I knew the man had always disliked me, even called me mad, but never had I suspected he bore me such loathing!

Then quite suddenly, something icy flooded my veins, ripping the strength from my body. My heart skipped several uncomfortable beats, and I glanced frantically at Helyanwë, whose eyes widened at the terror in my face.

_Poison, _I thought, drawing on some long-forgotten scrap of information I had read ages ago. _Certain poisons seem to fill the blood with ice when they are stimulated... But how? When? There was no chance for anyone to..._

_Oh, Eru. I did take a bit of wine, did I not? But...surely not! It was so little!_

Dimly, I registered the sensation of falling. I never felt myself strike the marble floor.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes<span>

Faniel is one Fëanor's half-sisters in an early draft of the _Silmarillion_. In this story, she and Findis will figure as his half-sisters.

Mereth Aderthad is Sindarin for "Feast of Reuniting," a celebration held by Fingolfin in Beleriand twenty years after the rising of the sun. It was a successful attempt to unite under one cause all the Elves of Beleriand, as well as to reconcile the Fëanorian and Fingolfinian factions of the Noldor.

The Lambengolmor was a guild of loremasters founded and headed by Fëanor in his first life.

The Ambassador's view on the First Kinslaying should not be read as a Noldor-apologist maneuver. She simply believes that those who say her people were sinless are wrong, and that both the Noldor and the Teleri were guilty. Perhaps the Teleri had a better reason for it, but when you get right down to it, they both took lives.


	11. Rekindling - Part III

**_To Toraach - in my headcanon, the younger Fëanorians have only dim memories of their past lives and tend to remember the good things more clearly than the bad, but the older ones remember everything quite plainly, and thus carry more guilt with them.  
><em>**

**_To Umeko - You asked about Faniel and Findis, right? Yes, Faniel is Lalwen, in a way. The political drama that took place during Fëanor's time in Mandos is pretty complicated, and it'll be explained later on, but basically, Findis did rule as regent until Arafinwë returned to Tirion. Later on in the Second Age, when the Vanguard was formed, Arafinwë (who in my head never really wanted to be king) abdicated in favor of Faniel, the most pro-Fëanorian of the children of Finwë and the best to advocate for support for Nerdanel's cause - namely, recruiting elven women to fight Sauron in the name of her husband and his unfinished legacy._**

**_To all my reviewers - I know you're all worried about Fëanor, so I'll put you at ease in the beginning. I'm glad you like what's been going on so far!_**

* * *

><p><em>Rekindling ~ Part III<br>_

Poisoning is a very strange experience.

I wandered in twilit delirium for a time, seeing things that could not possibly have been real: wraithlike Telerin elves clawed at my chest with their bony fingers as if trying to tear out my heart; Nolofinwë sank beneath the black waters of the Helcaraxë, the lamp in his hand casting an eerie blue glow over his face, which was upturned to me in an expression of utmost pity; Fëarillë rode a massive wolf with eyes like live coals through a dense forest, charging straight into Gothmog and causing them both to burst in a shower of sparks. Strangest of all, I saw the little Treelight spirit breast-to-breast with Lord Turindo in a palace corridor, a needle-thin dagger in her hand, the point poised above his heart.

At one time, I thought a cup was placed to my lips, filled with cool liquid and something gritty and metallic, but I did not take much stock of it.

Most of all, I remember cold, a deep, piercing cold that chilled me to the core and set me to shivering uncontrollably. It reminded me horribly of the Void.

I was still shaking when the hallucinations began to slow and then cease, and I felt so profoundly weak that I could scarcely keep my eyes open. Faces hovered mistily above me, a gentle hand smoothed my hair back from my face, and as if from a great distance I discerned several voices. All were familiar, but I could not summon the energy to put names to them.

"Will he be all right, then?"

"Yes, the worst has already passed. He is lucky: I believe he swallowed very little of the toxin, and his constitution is strong. The charcoal will take care of the rest."

"Thank Eru for that. I pray he does not take it to heart. Turindo is a wicked man. He hated my brother long before there was any justifiable reason for it. He has been waiting for this opportunity; mark my words."

"Think of it, though: he is with us for a fortnight, and someone tries to slay him. How could anyone do but take that to heart?"

"'Tis horrible. Eru has seen fit to forgive him; so should we all."

"The children of Eru are not always so merciful as their Father. Even if they were, I doubt it would make a difference in Turindo's case. Forgiveness is not the question with him; it is the darkness that has always resided in his heart."

"Well...'tis certain that he will never again harm Fëanáro. I doubt that anyone else will either, after what happened tonight."

"Yes, 'twas good of Fëarillë to ensure that, in a way."

"Then it is true that she -"

"Yes, quite true. She ought not to have been so reckless."

"I hardly think she meant to do what she did. It does not seem like her..."

I registered little of this, and made sense of less. All I was certain of was that I was quite as cold as I had been in the Void, and I could not stop shivering. It seemed fitting payment, in a way, for my treachery on the Helcaraxë.

"S-so...c-c-cold," I heard myself stutter, feeling strangely disconnected from my own voice.

The haze over my vision cleared just long enough for me to see Nolofinwë kneel at my side and draw a quilt over my chest. "I know you are," he said, his hand lighting down on my shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze, "but you should feel better soon. I will stay with you until then, if you wish."

"B-but...I l-left you...in the c-c-cold..."

Nolofinwë smiled gently, sadly. "Two wrongs do not make a right. Have you not heard?"

I drew myself as nearly into a ball as possible as he strode to the hearth fire and threw on another log, then returned to sit beside me. He wrapped his arm around me and tucked the quilt in more securely.

"I shall keep you warm. Try to rest."

I nodded weakly. Even that slight movement seemed a tremendous effort.

I strayed out of consciousness again, asking myself what I had done to deserve a brother like Nolofinwë.

* * *

><p>Eventually, I regained lucidity, though I still felt drained and feeble from fighting off the poison, and a faint chill lingered deep within me. When next I woke, warm sunlight was playing over my face, drying the cold sweat that dampened my bangs where they met my brow.<p>

My stepmother was sitting beside me, quiet and regal. One of her hands lay lightly atop mine, her thumb running soothingly over my knuckles. Suddenly, Nolofinwë's words on the eve of the solstice returned to me, his pronouncement that he had never ceased to love me in spite of all my attempts to shun him. It struck me that Indis might feel quite the same, though I had been vicious to her in my youth and cold in my adulthood. I could not decide whether this should relieve me or make me feel guiltier still.

The motion of Indis' thumb ceased abruptly when she saw my eyes open. Yes, she had good reason to think that I would spurn such a gesture.

"I would not have expected to find you here," I said, my speech slow and hoarse, every word an effort.

She stiffened instinctively, but attempted to smile. The effect was not exactly warm.

"Nolofinwë would have stayed with you until morning if I had allowed it, but I insisted he get some sleep. You were resting rather uneasily until an hour or so ago, and I did not think you should be alone, so I..."

Her voice trailed off, and she averted her gaze, as though resigning herself to whatever rejection I was about to sting her with.

I do not think I could have stung her, and strangely, I did not want to. Once, I had thought her the root of all my suffering, the reason why my mother was condemned to remain in Mandos, the reason why I would never have a real family. Now, after all that had happened and all I had seen of Mandos, and those _fëar_ who chose willingly to remain there and heal, my grudges against Indis seemed rather petty. She had never tried to replace my mother, after all. Quite to the contrary, even after marrying Atar, she had taken extraordinary care to ensure that she did not do so, treading around me as if upon ice. On those rare occasions when we met in my previous life, she had shown me nothing but gracious kindness.

No, Indis would never be my mother, but I was mature enough now to accept that Amil had chosen to consign her spirit to Mandos, and that it was her wish to remain. I would no longer hold it against them - either of them.

"I...I thank you for your company, milady. Where is my father?"

"He owes you a sincere apology for not dismissing Turindo ages ago, in my opinion, but he cannot bring himself to face you just yet," said Indis. "He does feel terribly guilty about this whole business. You must know that, even if he never tells you for himself. You inherited your pride from him."

Ah, so it had been Turindo who poisoned me after all! Given that knowledge, some small, nasty part of me wanted Atar to feel guilty. It was partially his fault, after all. How many times had Turindo tormented me during council in my past life, defaming my character before the people? How many times had his behavior been condemned by the other lords of court, and how many times had Atar ignored this, saying that no one in his right mind would believe what Turindo said about me, insisting that his retaliation against me would be terrible if he were dismissed? Because of that, because he had been permitted to stay at court, Turindo had been able to slip poison into my wine. He might indeed have killed me, and Atar would have been responsible for allowing it...

The next moment, these childish, venomous thoughts were swept away as the full gravity of my situation struck me, chilling me anew. Turindo had tried to kill me. He had nearly done it, it seemed.

I had been living among my people for a mere fortnight, and Turindo had tried to kill me.

I had known, of course, that there were those folk who hated me, but I had been so encouraged by all the forgiveness and warmth I had received thus far that I had come to hope I would never meet any of them. Perhaps some part of me had even begun to deny their existence. I wished dearly that I had not lowered my guard. As it was, the thought of someone hating me enough to make an attempt on my life was such a blow that I felt my throat tighten at once and my eyes begin to prickle. Lord Námo had warned me just before I left his halls that certain people would try to make my new life very difficult for me. Why had I allowed his words to fade from my mind?

But then, what was I to do, glance over my shoulder expecting to see a knife each time I walked into the great hall and put the life of a food taster at risk at every feast? Was I condemned to live in fear of an assassination until the world's end?

Ai; perhaps it would have been better had I never returned at all...

I turned my head so that Indis would not see the single tear that ran slowly down my cheek.

"What has been done with Turindo?" I asked, my voice thick.

There was a pregnant pause, and then, "...Do not concern yourself with it now. He has been...taken care of. Never again will he harm you."

Clearly, there was more to this than Indis was saying, and I suspected dark deeds were afoot. Dearly did I hope that none of my sons were involved in another act of kinslaying, a product of their furious desire to avenge the harm that had been done to me. I did not press my stepmother further, however. My mind was so overcome by despair and self-loathing that I did not think I could stand to hear that any of my kinfolk had killed in my name.

Indis seemed to sense my distress, for her hand returned to hover hesitantly over mine.

"Do not give up because of this," she said, quiet and fierce. "Turindo was a radical, and a dangerous one. He hated anyone who supported you, including your half-siblings, once they declared that they would join Nerdanel and Fëarillë in taking up your legacy of war against the Dark Lord's forces. No doubt he meant to kill all five of you, if he could, perhaps even your father as well. But remember, child, that he is one person, and there are very few in this world as vile as he. The vast majority are willing to forgive. Think of Her Excellency Helyanwë, and of Princess Eärwen. Think of all those who contributed to the _Treatise of Truth_ for the sake of your honor. Think of your family and friends. Think of them, and you will see that your allies are far stronger than your foes."

She sighed quietly. "I only ever wanted to care for you, child - not as a mother, but as a guardian in whom you could confide and trust to advise you. It seems that all I did was serve as a reminder that your amil was forever lost to you. For that, I am truly sorry. I do not blame you for shunning me."

This did not soothe me; rather, it blackened my mood even further.

"You are too like your firstborn son, milady," I said miserably. "You are both selfless and forgiving to a fault. You have every right to blame me. My past behavior towards you was cruel at the very least."

She smiled sadly. "I will not say I do not hope our relationship will improve from where it once stood."

Her hand came to cover mine, gentle but firm.

"Go back to sleep," she said. "It is early in the morning yet, and I doubt you took any decent rest last night. Think of those who care for you. Allow your strength to return. If you need anything, we are nearby."

I sank back against the pillows, feeling somehow wearier than I had been before. How I wished in that moment that I had never created the Silmarilli, that I had died a hero's death in the Wars of Beleriand and returned to life with nothing but glory to follow my name!

But then...Indis had made a fair point as well. Not everyone was like Turindo; I knew that to be true in spades. And then there was Helyanwë, Helyanwë of the transcendent spirit who, in spite of all her people had suffered at the hands of mine, encouraged them to forgive and take steps towards peace. When people like her walked upon Arda, how could I give up? To do so would be to render in vain all that my family and allies had done for me.

"Milady," I said, "who is responsible for saving my life?"

There was another strange pause. "The Telerin ambassador," said Indis, almost too decisively. "She is a skilled healer, and she conducted herself beautifully. She knew within a moment what poison you were given, and how to use charcoal as an antivenom."

So, a Teler had saved me, a Teler who had been a part of the First Kinslaying and might indeed have died in it.

Yes, it was too soon to give up.

* * *

><p>I slept deeply for quite some time. I do not think I dreamed at all, for which I was grateful upon my waking. The beautiful amber light of evening filled the room, casting a net of flickering lights over the ebony hair of my youngest half-sister Faniel, who was sitting beside me. She was as fair and youthful as I remembered her, her sky-blue eyes full of warmth and wisdom, her slender frame concealing hidden reserves of energy.<p>

She smiled upon seeing my eyes open, and I felt the lingering chill of my close brush with death vanish.

"Goodness, but you do look better!" she said cheerfully. "I was terribly worried about you, you know. You were so pale and you were tossing your head as though you were caught in some horrid nightmare. Thank Eru that Helyanwë was able to respond so quickly, or you might be... I shall not think about that. It did not happen. You are alive; that is what matters. Anyway, Eärwen and her ambassador want to see you in Alqualondë when you are feeling stronger to work out the peace treaty, and to apologize for last night. They both feel awfully guilty about all this; they think their presence here, as well as Helyanwë's willingness to forgive you, somehow aggravated Turindo and tipped him over the edge. Personally, I think he was mad to begin with. I know not how he managed to poison your wine without Fëarillë and Findis and I knowing anything about it. We are, after all, the finest spies in Tirion; there are very few people who can sneak information past the three of us, and I am so angry with myself for -"

"Goodness, Faniel, do you not need to breathe?" I cut in, chuckling gently. My youngest sister had always been extraordinarily energetic, and she had a habit of talking so quickly that it was impossible to take in everything she said. Some might have found it irritating; to me, even in my weakened state, it was endearing. I always had gotten along with her better than any of my other half-siblings: her quirks had the unique ability to cool my resentment and my bitterness.

"Forgive me!" Faniel laughed. "My voice is the last thing you need to hear, I am sure!"

"Oh, I would not say that. You may tell the princess and her ambassador, however, that I will absolutely not set foot in Alqualondë. Have they both gone out of their minds? I was poisoned in my own palace; do they not realize that I will be shot and killed as soon as I step through Alqualondë's gates?"

"Helyanwë assured me that if you come unarmed, you will not be hurt. Her people are longer so vengeful that they would attack a defenseless Noldo. Give us some credit, brother. Relations with Alqualondë have improved vastly since you left."

"You must have been a very good queen, then."

Faniel bowed her head and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, almost unconsciously. "I did my best. Having Fëarillë about to impersonate your ghost and frighten the radical Nolofinwëans into becoming less radical helped things along, of course."

"Fëarillë made herself out to be me?" The thought was almost laughable. I could not imagine the delicate little spirit passing herself off as a much taller and stronger-built nér.

"Oh, yes, and she did it very well! You should have seen it; she would cover herself in a black cloak, draw the hood over her face, and kneel in the chapel before the bier where Atar's _hröa_ lay in state until his rebirth. If any Nolofinwëans came in, she would turn very slowly, just enough to let the candlelight play over the side of her face - which looks remarkably like yours, if you catch but a glimpse - and then she would put her hand into a candle flame and take it right _off of the wick_ and hold it in her palm and wind it about her wrist... Oh, Eru, it was the strangest thing, and it was terrifying if you were unprepared for it! Sometimes she would walk the corridors at night, too, with a little ball of fire hovering in her hand. How could it have been anything but your ghost? Everyone was so completely fooled by the pyromancy Fëarillë could do that they neglected to notice she was far too short to be you!"

So Fëarillë was a pyromancer. It made sense: fire in its purest form was but light, after all. What other powers, then, did my little alter ego possess, and how did they fit into her dire warning that the energy in the Silmarilli, if unleashed, could destroy Arda?

Faniel paused to draw breath, and suddenly, her smile faltered.

"Yes, relations with the Teleri, are much improved, but...it seems relations amongst the Noldor leave something to be desired."

In listening to Faniel's cheerful, rapid speech, I had all but forgotten the dire events of the night before. At that moment, they came rushing back with brutal force, and I felt the cold begin to creep up within me once more.

"Faniel," I said carefully, "would you answer me something? Everyone has been dancing around it all day, and you are a candid soul."

"Well, I shall not answer it if it will hurt you, brother. You need to heal now."

I ignored her and pressed on. Her talk of Fëarillë and her capabilities had made me suspicious, and I would not be denied any longer. A memory rose to the surface, a memory of vague, dimly registered words:

_'Twas good of Fëarillë to ensure that, in a way._

_I hardly think she meant to do what she did..._

"Faniel, what has become of Turindo? Everyone insists that he will harm me no more, but if he has simply been locked up in the dungeons, he could escape, no? And if he has been exiled, what is to stop him from returning to make another attempt on my life, or yours, or our siblings'? How are you all so certain that he is unable to put us in further danger?"

Faniel looked distinctly awkward, and this told me exactly how serious whatever had happened to Turindo was, for awkwardness was not at all in Faniel's character. She was always resolutely cheerful, no matter how embarrassing or uncomfortable the situation.

"Well, of course he is unable: he is dead."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes<br>

It may seem that Fëanor has gotten over what happened to him pretty quickly. He hasn't. He's trying to convince himself that he has, but there are going to be more emotional repercussions of this incident, and some drama with Finwë and other...things...to add on to it. Look forward to journeys to Alqualondë and Formenos and the outskirts of Tirion, the full explanation for the political turmoil that went on after Fëanor's departure, and the reasons why Turindo has it in for Fëanor and his supporters. Thanks again for all your interest and encouragement; it keeps me from letting this slide!


	12. Rekindling - Part IV

_**Toraach - I do like the idea of Celebrimbor dwelling in Formenos. Formenos will become relevant very soon, so he may finally have his appearance. As for Maglor and Caranthir, in my headcanon Maglor was betrothed to an archer from Mithrim who was slain in the Dagor Bragollach and moved to Valinor upon her rebirth so as to better serve Nerdanel and the Vanguard. She'll come up later when Maglor tells the story of how he found his way home; she's a big part of it. Caranthir is not much for girls in my mind. He had a brief but heartfelt relationship with Haleth, and after she departed he never allowed himself to fall in love again.**_

_**Everyone - I made some slight changes to a few previous chapters raising the ages of Fëanor's sons so that the youngest ones are young adults rather than children. I hated to give up the adorable eight-year-old Ambarussa, but it was causing too many timeline issues. In my headcanon, though, the Ambarussa's personalities make them seem younger than they are, so there will still be fluff. :) Sorry for the delayed update; AP Calculus tests are not too lovely. Have a bit of a longer chapter in return!  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><em>Rekindling ~ Part IV<br>_

It was nothing to feel guilty over, I was told. My father was furious beyond belief with Turindo and fully intended to have him executed. Fëarillë had simply performed the grim deed herself, and in private, sparing the public a disturbing ordeal and the monarchy the trouble that would have followed. Turindo's death had been attributed to a wild boar he had been hunting with several of the other lords, and that was that. No one who knew otherwise was about to tell the true story. Fëarillë had done the kingdom a service in neatly eliminating a dangerous radical. Certainly it was no poor reflection on me, her creator.

Weary and sore from the carriage ride home from the palace, I leaned back against my pillows with a heavy sigh. I covered my face against the chink of light that slipped through the curtains and set the dust sparkling. I did not trust it. I knew what it could do now. I knew how it could kill.

I forced myself to dwell upon what had happened.

Fëarillë was the first to realize what had been done to me, for being an Ainu-like entity, she could read the thoughts of others. However, she was limited to those thoughts that pertained to me, and as Turindo had kept his mind carefully guarded until I stood to pledge my duty as High Prince and he looked at me with unveiled hate. Only then was it revealed to Fëarillë that Turindo had tainted my wine with the juice of the bloodberry, a dangerously toxic look-alike of many other wild fruits.

Turindo fled the hall in the panic following my collapse, and Fëarillë pursued him, cutting off his escape through a back corridor. Nerdanel and Faniel, who were traveling to the kitchens by the same route in an effort to obtain charcoal, met them there, and witnessed the Treelight spirit draw a slender dagger no longer than a letter opener and set the point to Turindo's chest. He mocked her and her little weapon, daring her to attack him, and the next second, before anyone had quite realized what had happened, he was lying on the floor, quite dead.

"You know me, Fëanáro," Nerdanel told me later, her face grave. "You know I have fought two wars. It takes a great deal to frighten me. When I saw that man fall, I nearly screamed."

Anyone would have done so had they witnessed what she and Faniel had; indeed, those of a frailer constitution would have fled in horror. Death struck Turindo in the space of an eyeblink, quick as the light which Fëarillë embodied, snuffing out his life without leaving a single mark upon him. And it was indeed Treelight which slew him, the coroners later concluded. It entered his body through a tiny incision made by Fëarillë's dagger and filled him with energy equivalent to that of a lightning strike, stopping his heart in an instant.

Fëarillë was deeply regretful. She came to see me ere I left the palace and knelt at my bedside, sobbing that she had never meant for anyone to die. "I wanted his confession, and then I would have brought him straight before the King!" she wept. "At the last second, he told me he had killed you, and I was so angry and frightened I never thought that he must be lying! I would have known if you had truly been slain! I would have felt it!"

She wept so piteously that I forgave her on the spot. After all, she had likely saved my siblings, perhaps even my father, from further assassination attempts. It was only later that the full horror of the situation struck me. In the moment she let go her self-control and succumbed to the excesses of emotion, Fëarillë had unleashed a burst of energy strong enough to kill a man in a split-second. This could only mean that she was scarcely holding her tremendous power in check, and that any provocation might cause her to loose those bonds, whether she intended to or not. She had struck in fury, but could great joy have the same effect? Might she one day, in pure elation, let slip her control and kill one of my sons in the resulting energy wave? She was unpredictable, she was capricious, she had at her fingertips the power to reshape the world. And she was living under my roof.

Nay, would that it were so simple; then I might have a chance at escape! As it was, there was no place in the world I could go to be truly free of the threat she posed, for she was a part of me. She would follow me wherever I went, out to the end of time. This thought only compounded the fear and suspicion I felt in the wake of Turindo's assassination attempt, and increased my misery a hundredfold.

I drew my limbs into a ball and pressed my head down onto my knees. I wanted to disappear, or at least to become someone other than Curufinwë Fëanáro. How dearly I wished I could be a simple craftsman with no royal blood to speak of, no horrific misdeeds to his name, and no hatred to dog his every footstep!

Presently there came a scraping at the lock, as though someone was attempting to pick it, and then the door creaked slowly open. Maitimo's low, gentle voice filled the silence.

"Atar, starving yourself will do no good."

I did not look up. I did not want Maitimo's company, I realized. Shameful as it was, I desired only to stay locked up in my room and drown in self-pity. It was far easier than confronting my enemies - more painful, but easier. So had it always been with me.

"Have you truly lost such hope that you believe your own family would poison you?"

Indeed I had. I had been home for two days, and I had not left my room once. So consumed was I by the thought that a man had hated me enough to kill me (not a new prospect, but one I had been steadfastly denying since my return from Mandos) that I sank into bitterness and paranoia. I had neither slept nor eaten nor spoken to anyone. My sons had suffered greatly by my hand; perhaps they wished for my death. Perhaps Nerdanel did as well (she was furious at being locked out of her own bedroom, but I could not bring myself to care). Some small part of me, quiet but assured of the truth in its words, murmured that I was being wholly irrational. I did not listen. I had fallen into such deep gloom that I knew none but my father could reach me, and he would not come. That would require him to apologize and to admit that he had allowed Turindo to remain on his counsel, thus giving him the access he needed to poison me. I did not see that that was likely to happen. Had I been in a steadier state of mind, I would have recognized that Atar never had liked to confess to himself that he had done me an ill turn, for as dearly as he loved me, the thought was almost too terrible for him to contemplate. As it was, I construed his conspicuous failure to visit me as a sign that what had befallen me did not trouble him much.

The mattress creaked and descended a few inches as Maitimo sat down beside me, tucked his arms about me, and drew me to his chest. In spite of myself, I allowed my head to tip back against his shoulder and my eyes to flutter shut. He was so warm, so alive! Placed in his strong, vital presence, I realized how desperately weak I had become over the past two days, and not only in body. My profound misery had leeched into my soul, sapping my courage and my love of life.

Maitimo sighed heavily, and then at once, his voice changed. It was softer, filled with sorrow.

"I watched you slip away from us when Haru Finwë was slain. I shall not let it happen again. In Eru's name, Atar, I shall stay with you until you speak to me."

Then you shall be here for a long while, child, I thought bitterly.

We remained thus for some time, the chink of light between the curtains growing dimmer and dimmer until it faded away entirely. I was glad of it, and of the darkness. It took my mind off of Fëarillë and her terrifying power. With the dying of the light, however, all the tension drained from my body, leaving me feeling so completely lethargic that I no longer took notice of the gnawing hunger in my stomach. Each blink of my eyes seemed to require tremendous effort. I saw, but did not truly see. My surroundings were shrouded in a grey haze of despair.

_As a child, I was taught that it is a terrible sin to wish death upon another Elda. How much must Turindo have hated me, then, to vitiate his soul beyond repair in the attempt to extinguish my life? I knew upon my death that my deeds made me worthy of loathing, but I had such hopes upon my release from Mandos, such hopes that I could make a new start and be free of the stigma of my past. I denied the truth, arrogant fool that I am. I denied it until it was placed squarely before my face, and now I pay for it. One such as I can never dare to hope for happiness, or for a life free from hate. My soul may have been cleansed, but the past will never die, neither in my mind nor in the minds of the people. The blood shall never come clean. As once I was a kinslayer, so shall I always be._

_And, oh, Fëarillë, child of my spirit, fruit of my greatest triumph! You live by the purest, most innocent part of my soul; you were meant for beauty and for healing, and yet your power is too great. It lets you harm and kill and become a monster, even when you do not intend to do so. I fear you, like the Silmarilli themselves, shall prove to be my life's bane. _

_Even as I create, I destroy… Can I do nothing upon this earth without marring it?_

I drifted into a sort of stupor, my eyes half-lidded, staring but not seeing. I was vaguely conscious of Maitimo stroking my hair, working out the snarls with his deft fingers, but I did not look at him, and I did not speak. Neither did he. For this I was grateful, for I had no energy and no desire for speech.

At last, Maitimo spoke into the silence, low and firm.

"Do you realize that by locking yourself away in this room, you are allowing Turindo's poison to fill you and kill you, moment by moment? You alone can lay his ghost and render in vain his attempt upon your life. We can encourage you and support you all we like, but in the end, the choice is yours. I beg you not to let yourself die. Please fight."

"You deserve a better father than I, Nelyo," I said, every word thick and slow as molasses.

Maitimo made a choked sound between a laugh and a sob. "You truly do not see yourself as you are, do you? You do not see what you give to me, and to my brothers, and to Amil. Perhaps this will explain: even if all the world turned against you - and it has not - there would still be eight who loved you with a love unshakable by the most brutal of hammer-strokes."

"I know not how you can say such things, after all you have suffered at my hands."

"For Eru's sake, Atar, we have been over this! You forget that it was my choice, not yours, to take on that suffering. No one forced me to swear your Oath. I took it of my own accord, because I could not stand to see you grieve, and as I thought pledging my fealty would soothe some of the pain caused by your father's death, I was willing to do it. It was love that drove me. That never changed. Indeed, my last thought as I died was that I had failed you. Ask any of my brothers; they will say the same."

He kissed the crown of my head, and was gone.

Bereft of Maitimo's warmth and his strength, I was left feeling profoundly exhausted. I tipped onto my side, wrapping my arms around a pile of blankets as though I were a small child again.

_I cannot live my life like this, falling into despair each time I am shown that not everyone adores me. Is the unconditional love of my family not enough? Why do I do this to myself? Why do I go on feeling that no one cares for me when I know full well it is not true? I must love misery, then._

_Maitimo is right, of course. He tempers his feelings with wisdom where I let emotion run rampant with me. I am not wholly to blame for what became of my people. I forced none to join my cause. They made their own decisions as I made mine._

_But then...was I not told so by Lord N_á_mo from the very beginning?  
><em>

A sardonic smile crossed my lips.

_It seems even Mandos cannot erase the stubbornness of a Noldo._

* * *

><p>I dreamt of Maitimo that night, standing on the edge of a chasm riven with flames, his hand burned and bleeding but still clenched tightly about his last link to his father, the jewel which had once been so precious to me. His voice was filled with inconsolable anguish as he cried aloud to the black sky, <em>Forgive me, Atarinya!<em>

And then, in a single moment, I understood. Maitimo slew himself not only because he could not live with what he had become, but because he could not stand thinking that he had failed me. One Silmaril sailed the skies and was lost to him; the other that Macalaurë cast into the sea was just as far out of reach. There was no way for him to complete the quest he had promised me, moments before my death, that he would fulfill.

I woke with tears upon my cheeks. Huan had climbed into the bed at some point during the night, for my face was buried in his fur and one of his paws lay protectively on my back.

I propped myself on one elbow, wincing at the stiffness of his neck, and looked into the great hound's baleful dark eyes.

"I have the strangest feeling that you understand me better than I understand myself," I murmured. Huan licked my face in answer.

Scratching his head fondly, I turned onto my back with a sigh. The despair of the previous night was not gone entirely, but it was duller now, and I had returned to some semblance of rationality (I was still vaguely wary of the sunlight streaming through the curtains), and I was filled with a motivation akin to that which overcame me when I began a new project. In light of my dream and Maitimo's statements, it was utterly mad to have suspected my family of having designs on my life. I resolved to join them for a meal as soon as I ascertained that I could walk without collapsing from hunger. After that, I would propose that we travel to Formenos and stay at my hunting lodge for a few weeks. Yes, Formenos was the right decision. Some of my most powerful demons dwelt there, and I had to face them sooner or later if I was to avoid a repeat of the past two days. Besides that, time away from the cutthroat politics of Tirion, spent among our most fervent supporters, would do us all good. Nerdanel could meet with her captains who dwelt there and and do whatever was necessary to ensure they were thoroughly prepared for the coming wars. Tyelkormo and the Ambarussa would enjoy the good hunting, Maitimo and Carnistir would have access to the extensive library I kept there, and perhaps Macalaurë would be inspired to a new composition by the wild, rugged beauty of the place. I could even invite Helyanwë and Eärwen to join us and settle the peace treaty there. It was Noldorin territory, I knew, and it would speak better of me to meet with them on their own ground in Alqualondë, but in the wake of Turindo's actions, I was not yet quite daring enough to attempt that.

My father was another matter entirely. Though I had regained clarity enough to assure myself that his absence was not for lack of care for me, I was still rather angry with him. If one of my sons had been poisoned, I would have refused to leave his side until he was well, no matter how great the guilt I felt. It was not like Atar to be so cowardly, but then, he never responded well to harm that was done to me.

Well, I would think about that later. It was a new day, my would-be assassin was dead and buried, and Fëarillë was likely hiding in my furnace, as was her wont, doing whatever it was she did. Maitimo's words had given me more confidence than I had thought, for I was longer frightened of her. Surely I had read too much into what happened between her and Turindo. Nerdanel had known the little spirit for ages, and if she thought Fëarillë posed any threat to us, she would not be so relaxed in her presence as she often was. Turindo's death was simply a freak accident never to be repeated.

Goodness, but I did swing between joy and sorrow quickly! That could not be entirely healthy! I must resolve to do something about that as well.

Suddenly, there came a loud thump from the yard beneath my window, followed by shouts of disappointment. A few moments later, Maitimo appeared in the doorway, startling me out of my musings.

"They woke you, I see," he said, drumming the fingers of one hand against his hip as he did when he was highly annoyed. "I told them they ought to be more considerate, but of course, they did not listen! And you as well, Huan; leave Atar be!"

Huan gave a low growl and settled himself closer to me.

I beckoned Maitimo nearer and pressed a kiss to his brow when he knelt down. "You are quite endearing when you are indignant, child."

He relaxed a bit and managed a smile. "You seem to be feeling better."

"Very much so, and all thanks to you. You have my father's gift for knowing exactly what I need to hear."

Maitimo bowed his head modestly. "I merely speak from my heart. You must be hungry, then."

"Indeed I am, but first, tell me, what exactly are your brothers doing to irritate you so?"

He rolled his eyes. "Tyelkormo, in his infinite wisdom, thought it would be fun to see if he could toss a watermelon in the air and pin it to a tree with a crossbow bolt before it came down. The rest of my brothers agreed."

In spite of myself, I let out a bark of laughter. That was Tyelkormo, without a doubt: always running, always doing, never one to brood or to be sentimental. It was not that he was not worried for me, I knew; he was simply managing it by being active and wild. "And you disapprove?"

"Of course I do!"

"Do you truly, or are you merely saying that because you believe I disapprove? I have the feeling, Nelyo, that you wish to join your brothers in Turko's little contest."

"Well, I..."

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and set up, bracing myself against a wave of dizziness.

"Then you may go, and I shall join you as soon as I ensure that I am not about to faint. I wish to see for myself if Turko can accomplish this latest stunt of his."

"Are you...are you quite certain?"

"Yes, yes; now, run along."

Maitimo kissed my hand and left the room. I lay back on the bed, and Huan rested his great shaggy head on my chest.

_Oh, no, my dearest one, you did not fail me. It is quite the reverse, and for that, I shall never forgive myself. I shall to my utmost to make it up to you this summer. We shall go to Formenos, and we shall make of the city a place not of exile, but of freedom and joy. Never again will you know the sorrows that drove you to take your life. I promised you that on the night of my return, and I promise you the same now. You will not regret giving me the chance to redeem myself and to love you as I ought._

Swallowing hard against the lump of mingled sorrow and joy that had settled in my throat, I stood carefully and began to dress for the day.

* * *

><p>Knowing I should not attempt to eat a full meal immediately, I took to the yard in front of the house a large apple and several slices of bread and cheese to reaccustom my <em>hr<em>_ö__a _to food before it came time for luncheon. The honest relief in my sons' faces when I joined them reinforced Maitimo's declaration of love of the previous night, and I relaxed. No, I was not beyond hope. My children were more than willing to move forward from the past; I was the only one still clinging to it.

I arrived and settled myself in the warm grass just in time to see Ambarto toss a good-sized watermelon into the air, then dart out of the path of Tyelkormo's crossbow. In a flash of finely-honed reflexes, Tyelkormo fired the bolt he had loaded, which sank into the center of the fruit and pinned it to a lone tree standing yards away. There were wild cheers and applause from his brothers as well as from Nerdanel, who had nearly knocked me to the ground in her eagerness to kiss me. Though she berated me for locking her out of her bedroom, after a half-hearted scolding she had settled herself so that I could rest my head in her lap and insisted upon feeding me bits of bread and cheese.

"Istyë, I am quite capable of feeding myself..."

"Of course you are, but I know you will eat too fast and make yourself sick if I allow you to."

There was nothing but affection in her voice, and it soothed me so completely that not even the sudden appearance of Fëarillë at my side could startle me. Tears of relief filled her silver eyes as she looked upon me. She said nothing, but curled up beside me with such childlike innocence that for a moment, I forgot entirely that she was capable of killing a man in a split-second.

As it drew nearer to midday, Tyelkormo progressed to smaller and smaller fruit, all of which he managed to pin to the tree. He had just gotten to a small apple, the sight of which raised exclamations of doubt from his brothers, when a carriage emblazoned with my father's sigil drew up to the gate. I sat bolt upright, all the tension returning to my body. So he had decided to visit me a full week after my poisoning?

I stood and opened the gate for Atar as he dismounted the carriage. He was dressed so regally that it seemed he had walked out on a council meeting in favor of coming to my home. His expression turned to one of utmost concern as he looked me over.

_He was not concerned enough to sit with me as I lay in a fever_, said a small, bitter part of me.

"How are you, child?" Atar asked. The hesitation in his voice was wholly uncharacteristic. Normally, he was as sure in every one of his decisions as a mountain goat upon a rocky slope. "I have hardly slept in days for worry for you."

"Well, I am much better now, no thanks to you," I said, rather more coldly than I had meant to.

Pain flashed across Atar's face, and I wavered in a moment of regret just long enough for Nerdanel, who had been standing behind me, to take my arm with a hurried, "Excuse us," and draw me away.

"What is the matter with you?" she whispered urgently.

"You know very well!" I replied just as fiercely. "Nolofinwë stayed at my side all through that first night, and he has no great love for me, yet my father, who professes to hold me dearer than his own life, waited a week to come see me!"

"Do not be too hard on him," Nerdanel cautioned, raising a hand to stem the flow my harsh words.

"I would wager that he will not even speak of what Turindo did to me, much less offer me the apology I am due!"

"I am certain you recall how you felt when you were in Mandos and you learned the extent of the suffering that had befallen your sons," Nerdanel went on, calm and steadfast. "It tore you apart, did it not?"

"Of course it did!"

"Well, it is the same with your father in this case. You are his eldest and his best-beloved; it is far too painful for him to speak of the harm that was done to you, especially since he is partly to blame. I spoke to him while you were recovering, and believe me, he does feel guilty."

"As well he should!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Fëanáro, in some ways you are still the sulking, arrogant little boy who apprenticed to my father! You must stop brooding! You have been locked up in your room for two days doing exactly that; have you not had enough? Sometimes I think you must want to be miserable, so that everyone will pity you and how very alone you are! Well, you are not alone, and the King meant you no offense by his actions, so let them go! You may bear the body of an adult, but at times you can be such a child!"

"Do you mean to say I should simply ignore that a man tried to kill me?"

"I do not speak of that. I mean to say that you are holding a grudge against your father without any good reason. The two of you share such a beautiful love; do not risk that relationship over this. I have told you the truth. You would do well to accept it and forgive him."

She gave me a shove back towards the gate, where Atar was waiting with such sorrow in his face that I felt my heart soften in spite of myself.

"Fëanáro, I..." he began, his hands spread pathetically.

I walked into his arms before he could speak further, my head coming to rest on his shoulder.

He released a shaky breath. "Curufinwë, my dear, precious child," he murmured, and in those few words was contained such love and remorse that I felt my throat constrict. It was the very same tone he had adopted when he had told me of his impending marriage to Indis. Though I had shrieked obscenities at him until my throat was raw, in the end it was he who asked for my forgiveness. It had always been so when I was young. When I grew angry with him, he managed to place the blame upon his shoulders, and never mine. Very rarely did he indicate that I was in the wrong; indeed, I remembered well the furious argument he had with Indis when he decided to follow me into exile.

_You are condoning his behavior! _she had shouted. _You are condoning his threat to murder my firstborn!_

_I condone nothing_, Atar had replied meekly. _He is in the midst of a troubled time, and he needs me. Melkor has been whispering throughout the city that Nolofinwë and Arafinwë intend to snatch away Fëanáro's birthright, along with the love I bear him, and I did nothing to dispel those rumors. It is my fault this happened. I must put him at ease._

Even then, even when it was my hand that held the sword and my sword that drew delicate drops of Nolofinwë's blood, Atar had found a way to excuse me. The night of my return from Mandos and his decision to withhold the kingship from me until I could prove myself a steadier leader was an unusual occurrence, and one of very few occasions on which Atar truly addressed my wrongs.

And now, it was happening again. Atar had failed to come to me because he could not bring himself to speak of the harm I had been dealt and what its dire consequences could have been, and I was accusing him, silently, of staying away for lack of care. He was as loving as ever, and I was as hasty and blind and wrapped in self-pity as always. Nerdanel was right. She knew better than I knew myself.

I never had been able to stay angry with Atar for long, and this time was no different. Standing in the protective circle of his arms, I was reminded of how much I loved him, and of the agony I endured when he was slain. No, I would never take him for granted again.

I did not need an explicit apology. His presence alone was enough.

I drew back a pace, looking up at him with a smile.

"'Tis good to see you again," I said.

Atar sighed deeply and took my face between his hands. "Glad indeed am I to find you well."

I took his arm and drew him back towards the place where my sons were gathered, waiting for Tyelkormo to attempt to pin the little apple to the tree.

"If they are amenable to it, I intend to take my family to Formenos for a few weeks," I said. "Would you care to accompany us?"

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Notes<br>**

**_Now I'm getting into the meat of this story, which is part of a trilogy ending with the Last Battle and its immediate aftermath. The action has been fairly general so far, but from here on out, the story will focus on specific incidents between Fëanáro and each of his sons which will serve to help them truly re-establish their relationships. Of course, the whole Alqualondë thing isn't settled yet, Fëanáro has ghosts to lay in Formenos, and of course it'll be a while before he's comfortable going into royal Tirion again... And how will his allies, particularly the group responsible for writing the _Treatise of Truth_, respond to the attempt on his life? Surely they won't let Turindo destroy all the work they've done to restore Fëanáro's honor!_  
><strong>

**_By the way, I don't think I cleared this up before: the charcoal that everyone keeps referencing is an effective agent for detoxification of the blood; it works well on many poisonous plants. This, powdered and given in water, was the antidote used to save Fëanáro's life._**


	13. Formenos - Part I

_**Sara Pettersson: I totally agree with you about that particular song being a fitting theme for **__**Fëanor's relationship with Eru. One of the biggest changes his time in Mandos made in him was to instill a deep reverence and trust in the Allfather, and that song suits it perfectly.**__**  
><strong>_

_**Everyone - I apologize again for the delay, and for this kind of being a filler chapter... Thank you for all your kind comments and encouragement, and I hope you continue to enjoy!  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><em>Formenos ~ Part I<br>_

_To the High Princess Eärwen and Ambassador Helyanwë, High Prince Fëanáro sends his greetings._

_I cannot begin without first expressing my sincerest gratitude to you, Ambassador, for saving my life. I was told that without your presence of your mind and knowledge of how to counter poisons, Lord Turindo's assassination attempt would certainly have succeeded. As you can imagine, that night went far to destroy my hope and happiness, and it was comforting beyond description to know that I had a friend among the Teleri. For that friendship and extraordinary willingness to forgive, I am perhaps more grateful still. You showed me love where I deserved hate, in spite of all that has passed between our peoples. You have placed me forever in your debt._

_On the subject of the late Lord Turindo, his attempt on my life put on hold our peace negotiations, which have already been delayed far too long Though I am as eager as you are to draft a treaty and take steps towards healing the relations between our peoples, I am sure you understand that in light of recent events, I do not feel comfortable meeting either in Tirion or in Alqualondë. Thus I propose that you join my family in Formenos at your earliest convenience, and we may settle affairs there. As it is a Noldorin domain, I doubted at first that you would be any more content there than I would be in Alqualondë, but my lady wife assures me that many of your Vanguard comrades dwell in Formenos, and you will be quite at ease in their company.. I am as eager as you are to take this step towards healing, but I am sure you understand that, in light of recent events, I am not comfortable meeting either in Tirion or in Alqualondë. Thus I propose that you join my family and me in Formenos at your earliest convenience, and we may settle the treaty there. I am aware, of course, that it is a Noldorin domain, and at first I doubted that you would be any more content there than I would be in Alqualondë, but my lady wife assures me that many of your Vanguard comrades dwell in Formenos, and you will be quite at ease in their company. My family would be delighted to host you at our hunting lodge just outside the city. It is the very least we can do in return for your services to me. _

_Nerdanel is very much looking forward to seeing you. I only engaged one battle with the enemy ere I was slain, so I cannot claim to know of about war, but from all she has told me, you are two of the Vanguard's finest soldiers. She tells me also that you, Princess, are the quite the tactician, and are involved in planning how Formenos may be defended if the Dark Lord lays siege to it when he returns. I am sure you and Nerdanel will have things to discuss on this point and soldiers to train, though knowing you both, I can imagine you already have most of the details perfectly ironed out._

_I still find it hard to believe that you found it in your hearts to speak to me as a friend and comrade after what the deaths I caused your people, but I suppose quite a long time has passed since the First Kinslaying, and it must help that nearly all of those slain have been reborn. You are right, both of you, to say that someone must always be the first to forgive, and if no one steps forward, the cycle of blame and vengeance will continue unto the world's ending. Perhaps if I were to apply your wisdom to the war I am fighting within myself, I might find peace in this new life I have been given._

_You may send your answer back to Tirion with the same messenger who delivers it. I await your response, and until then, I remain, ladies, your servant ever,_

_ Fëanáro._

_To the High Prince Fëanáro from the High Princess Eärwen, _

_Of course I see you as a friend. To me, you are still the same young man I went swimming with in Alqualondë, the same young man who so patiently endeavored to teach me swordplay even though I was hopeless at it (thank goodness I fare better with a bow and arrow, or I would never have survived my first battle with the Vanguard). The Fëanáro I know died with his father. He is a separate person entirely from the Fëanáro who attacked my city, and I do not associate him with you._

_Helyanwë and I would be delighted to join you in Formenos. I hear the hunting is excellent. Perhaps I may be able to refresh my archery skills a bit._

_Make peace with yourself. It has indeed been a very long time. Let go._

_ Yours in friendship,_

_ Eärwen_

* * *

><p>In the past, I had dreaded long journeys. They were simply riddled with chances for foul weather and lost possessions and twisted ankles and spooked horses and all manner of other misfortunes. When my sons were young, I would spend the whole of our travels in an intense state of anxiety, snapping at anyone who put a toe out of line. By the time we reached our destination, I would be so stiff and sore with tension that it would take a hot bath of at least an hour to relax my muscles. In time, I learned to allow my sons more freedom, and to accept that boys would be boys. They had to be; if not, they were sure to go mad. I knew this all too well, for my childhood in my father's palace bored me to tears, and I ran away on multiple occasions to roam the wilds of Aman. This was not a lifestyle I wanted for my sons, for it got me into grave danger more than once, including a forest fire which my dear linguistics tutor rescued me from ere I could choke to death on the smoke. Thus I compromised with my children until they reached adulthood, allowing them the rein to explore and be wild and enjoy themselves, but never letting them stray so far that I felt the need to worry. Out of this agreement came many memorable camping trips and hikes into the woods and mountains which were the subjects of tales well-told ever after.<p>

Besides the journeys themselves, I hated packing. Nerdanel and I drove each other and our sons mad during this stage of preparation. We both had different opinions on what items were a priority to bring, what kinds of clothes we would need, and how much food we should carry, not to mention the endless lists of questions we put our children through to ensure that nothing was forgotten. This process usually ended with the boys locking themselves in their rooms to escape our pestering and Nerdanel and I glaring at each other from opposite ends of a hallway, having shouted harsh things that had nothing to do with the journey and everything to do with stress. We were both so strong-willed and self-assured at that time that we could stand there for full minutes without saying a word, each silently daring the other to surrender. Usually, it was I who relented first, for it was often my lack of patience which started the fights in the first place. Once I made a move, Nerdanel was quick to apologize for her part in it (she could argue just as viciously as I), and we would be in each other's arms in seconds, conveying the forgiveness we could not express in words with a tender kiss.

The day of our departure for Formenos was entirely different. Nerdanel and I still bickered as we emptied our closets and dressers and put food supplies in order and got in each other's way, and at one moment Maclaurë, who had never dealt with leaving home as well as his brothers, looked as if he might run from me if I asked him one more question beginning with "Do you have your…?" In spite of this, the mood in the house was considerably lighter than it ever had been on the morning of a journey. My sons were as eager as I to leave the place where radicals hated their father enough to kill him, and knowing that we were traveling to Formenos made them all the happier. I had thought that they would hate the city that had been their prison and the site of their grandfather's murder, but from all they told me, Formenos had become quite a haven for them upon their return to life. It healed their souls to be among folk who supported them wholeheartedly (it was a well-known fact that Formenos was the hive of the most ardent pro-Fëanárions), to be free of cutthroat politics, and to roam the wilds at will. Maitimo all but kissed me when I told him that he would have free rein of my library for the duration of our stay. It made me inexpressibly content to think of him curled up in a deep armchair with a book open on his knee, the fire on the hearth lulling him steadily to sleep.

For my part, I could not wait to be off. Eärwen's letter had placed me in high spirits. I had not yet met with the folk of Formenos, though by all accounts they were my most loyal supporters, and I was eager for the healing that their company would bring. My heart was light, and I felt curiously childlike, as though at any moment I might shout to my sons, "Race me!" and gallop away until I was so breathless with laughter that I could hardly stay in the saddle. The only dark moment of the morning was when my thoughts wandered to the great, stark house where I had lived with my family, and a crossbow bolt of grief slammed into me when I remembered that my father had died defending it.

_Your father is alive, I told myself firmly. You must remember that._

My family and I lived south of Tirion, and the quickest way north was through the city's opposite gate. Of all my disagreements with Nerdanel that morning, the argument we had over her decision to ride through Tirion, though brief, was the most bitter. After what Turindo had done, I was not at all inclined to present myself to the folk of the nobility who dwelt about the Court of the King.

"If we go around Tirion, it will add at least half a day to our journey," Nerdanel asserted.

"If we go through Tirion, it may cost me my life!" I shot back.

My wife sighed and turned to the sword she had laid on the bed, the same one she had been wearing on the night of my return. She slid a few inches of shining steel from the sheath and fingered it almost lovingly. It suddenly struck me how much she must love war.

"If anyone dares to touch you," she said quite seriously, "there will be a fourth Kinslaying."

"Do not even think it, Istyë!" My voice rose as I snatched the sword from her and slammed it back into its sheath. "Precious as my life is to me, it is not worth your eternal damnation!"

Nerdanel laughed gently and began to unwrap my white-knuckled fingers from her blade.

"I tend to disagree with you, but of course I was not serious. Peace, Fëanáro. I would certainly defend you from an assassin, but I am not yet mad enough to commit kin-slaughter in the streets of Tirion. Besides, if someone were to attack you, Fëarillë would certainly get to them before I would."

An uneasy laugh escaped me. My fear of the little spirit was not yet banished.

Still, the ride through Tirion passed without incident. It was early enough that the spire of the Mindon was still wreathed in mist, and as court had not yet been convened at the palace, the great square was mercifully empty of nobles. A few merchants were out setting up their stalls, some of whom offered me cheerful waves and wishes for safe travel. I allowed myself to relax. I had to stop thinking that all of Tirion loathed me when that was plainly not the case. There was Lord Nólaheru, my father's chief advisor who loved me as a son; there was the chestnut vendor who never once accepted pay for his foods; there were the countless children I had once kissed in benediction or tutored in linguistics until they graduated from the Lambengolmor as full-fledged loremasters. Turindo was one among many who did not share his hate.

It seemed that Tirion contained all that was ordered and civilized about Valinor, for as soon as we passed through its north gate, wilderness opened before us. A wide plain stretched out to the horizon, ringed by thick woods. These were not yet dominated by the sturdy evergreens of Formenos, but a few pines were dotted here and there. Even the wind was faintly scented with something wild and primitive, something that put me in mind of Beleriand and deep black lakes that mirrored the stars.

The day was a fair one, and my sons, despite having been shaken gently awake at a rather early hour, were bright-eyed and excited. Only Curufinwë seemed a bit uncomfortable at first. When I asked him what the matter was, he jerked upright in his saddle as one startled from sleep and said too quickly and loudly, "Nothing, Atar!" I was suspicious, even though he seemed to cheer up as the day wore on.

Our conversations as we rode were light-hearted and lively, punctuated by the gentle thump of our horses' hooves in the grass. Nerdanel kept us all entertained with war tales both heroic and amusing, including one of a maiden her soldiers had nicknamed "The Knife in the Dark," for she had been caught up in the Dagor Bragollach and blinded when a dragon's fire passed too close to her face. Far from giving in to despair, however, the lady had learned the way of the sword, enlisted in the Vanguard upon its formation, and vowed to never again be so vulnerable. According to Nerdanel, no one she trained with knew she was blind until she confessed it to them, for her combat skills surpassed even those of her superior officers. With the loss of her sight, it seemed that her other senses, particularly her hearing, had become abnormally keen. She was also in tune with the fëar and the heartbeats of others. She could pinpoint their locations with great precision based upon how they stirred the air about her.

When these extraordinary gifts were discovered, the maiden became the Vangaurd's first choice for night raids and other missions that required operating in the dark, including dispatching a large Valarauko that had taken up residence deep in a dwarves mine. Eventually, she was joined by several other maidens who, while not blind, had the ability to fight without the use of their eyes, and thus she became the captain of the Night Owls elite division.

Now after my demise at the hands of Gothmog, I had a healthy amount of fear for what Valaraukar could do. The thought of charging into one in broad daylight was enough to give me pause, but the idea of fighting one in total darkness was terrifying. How this soldier did not simply lose her mind to fear every time she went into battle, I did not know.

"I should very much like to meet her," said Maitimo when I articulated this statement. He had appeared to take a peculiar amount of interest in Nerdanel's description, and his voice when he spoke was of a tone that verged on dreamy. "She sounds wonderful."

"You may yet have your chance, for she presently dwells in Formenos," said my wife. "Thalieth is indeed an inspiration to us all. Her name suits her well, for she is living proof that any obstacle can be overcome if one's spirit is steadfast enough. She is among the most highly decorated Vanguard members to date, and she has been promoted many times. Given that she is wholly untroubled by fighting in darkness, I have put her in command of the operations which will defend Tirion - and your father - should Morgoth cast his shadows over Valinor again."

"I was not aware you had plans regarding that matter," I said, curious.

Nerdanel rolled her eyes. "The Eldar are not quick to make the same mistakes twice. Did you really think that, having felt firsthand the consequences of the Dark Lord's truly brilliant military maneuver the night of the Darkening, we would fail to prepare for his return? There is reason to believe he will attempt to kill your father again, given how immensely it benefited him the first time - but he will not get anywhere near Finwë. Trust us, Fëanáro. When Morgoth returns, we will be ready, and whether he comes to Tirion, Formenos, or Alqualondë, he will find himself in the midst of a fully militarized city prepared for everything he can do."

Love and pride in my wife filled me, and I reached across the gap between our two horses and clasped her hand.

"My soldier," I said. "My strong, beautiful soldier, how may I thank you?"

"Thank me when the Dark Lord's next siege has been fought and won," said Nerdanel. "I have great confidence in my ladies and in each city's troops, but it does not do to be entirely sure of a battle's outcome ere ever it is engaged. A healthy bit of caution can save lives. You ought to take that to heart, Valarauko-slayer."

I swatted her arm playfully. "I am not a fool, Istyë."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, no? Charging into a large group of fire-breathing demons without the faintest idea how to combat them certainly seems the action of a fool."

"You are never going to forgive me for that, are you?"

"No. There are worthy reasons to die, Fëanáro. Stupidity and arrogance are not among them."

I had known Nerdanel long enough to be aware that this gruffness was her way of showing me how much she cared, and so rather than retaliate, I merely offered her a warm smile. "It will not happen again, Istyë."

"I should hope not!" She returned my grin, and then said quite seriously, "But if it is vengeance you seek, you should let one of my smiths fit you with her mithril-lined gloves and boots. They will keep you from severe burns even if you were to climb onto Gothmog's back or seize his whip. Even the finest mithril mail will not save you if he he chooses to breathe fire, however, so do not test it, Fëanáro!"

"Would I do that, Istyë?"

"Given your history, I daresay you would."

There was something terribly sad beneath her teasing smile, something that sobered me at once. I leaned over and brought her hand to my lips, looking straight into her eyes.

"You will not lose me again, my love," I told her. "I promise."

* * *

><p>We ate the midday meal in the shade of an ancient, sprawling tree, forgoing picnic blankets to feel the warmth of the grass soak through our clothes. Nerdanel had far from run out of stories to tell, and as we ate she kept us well entertained with the tale of a particular skirmish the Vanguard had been in during the War of the Ring. They were stopped briefly in Cirith Ungol on their way into Mordor for the Battle of Morannon, when suddenly they were set upon by a group of spiders - spawn of Shelob, they thought.<p>

"Well, I ducked into a cave to escape the creature that was chasing me," Nerdanel explained, "and after a time, the darkness and the smell of it began to do odd things to my mind. I was certain that I could hear the skittering of a spider's legs, but when I drew my blade and waited for the fight to come, nothing happened. I remained alone. Eventually I came to the conclusion that to save my sanity I would have to light a flare, throw it into the tunnel, and see what I could see. Before I could make a move, however, I heard something move very close to me - and I was certain that it was not my imagination. The sound stopped after a few seconds, but I could sense something standing a few feet in front of me, and though I did not see the gleam of a spider's eyes, I was very wary. I struck out with the flat of my blade and felt it connect with something, and then there was a cry of pain and something very alive fell to the ground. I lit a flare to see what it was, and…"

Here Nerdanel paused and was shaken by a fit of laughter.

"Nolofinwë, who had come to Middle-earth alongside the Vanguard to ensure I did not join you in Mandos, was unconscious at my feet!"

I quickly swallowed my mouthful of food to ensure I did not choke on the laughter bubbling in my chest. "You mean to tell me you knocked out my half-brother because you mistook him for a spider?" I asked with great difficulty.

"Quite so!" said Nerdanel cheerfully. "My only regret was that you were not there to see it!"

I threw my head back and roared with laughter, and, joined by my wife and my sons, the sound rose up and filled the afternoon sky.

"Oh, goodness!" I gasped when at last I could speak, clutching a stitch in my side and flicking tears from my eyes. "Nolofinwë has no manner of luck at all, does he? First Maitimo's ink bottle explodes in his face, and now this… Eru forgive me, but 'tis wonderful to have a laugh at his expense!"

"He is rather accident-prone, but he is a good man," said Nerdanel gently.

"Yes, even I was forced to admit that after our meeting on Midsummer's Eve. He was...extraordinarily gracious, given our circumstances," I mused. Silence fell, and I realized that I had attracted curious stares from Nerdanel and all seven of my sons. "That is not to say," I added quickly, "that I care for him. He has a noble heart, I acknowledge, but I do not care for him."

"Of course not," said Nerdanel, smiling a strange half-smile that gave me the impression she knew things about me that I did not know myself.

I lay back in the grass and closed my eyes, taking a drink from my water-skin. Was it true that I had no feelings of care towards my half-brother? Nolofinwë had been awfully kind to me since my return: there had been his declaration of forgiveness that first glorious evening, and his assertion that he had once loved me well and hoped to do so again, and then there was the vigil he kept with me the night of my poisoning… He had certainly given me reason enough to care for him, but did I? My ancient resentment of him ran so deep and so far back through ice and treason that I doubted it had been banished so swiftly. Even so, I found suddenly that thinking of him did rouse my wrath or make me feel threatened, but comforted me instead. Perhaps I did indeed have an ally in him. Perhaps his was another name to add to my list of those from Tirion who did not wish me dead.

But did I care for him? Truth be told, in my heart, I was not sure.

Well, ambivalence is a fair ways away from hatred, I thought. Perhaps I can change.

* * *

><p>Evening was darkening to night when we saw the rider on the horizon.<p>

We had reached a field suitable for camping in, and seeking to stretch our legs after the day's ride, my sons and I had tied our horses and raced each other through the surrounding woods, reveling in the golden shafts of sunset that pierced the trees. I had just overtaken Tyelkormo and the Ambarussa who, being most accustomed to the ways of the woods, had theretofore been leading, when my boot-heel caught on a rock and sent me sprawling into a shallow creek. I sustained no more injury than a scraped knee and a torn trouser leg, but the water was quite cool from its time in the forest shade, and I was shivering as we made our way back to camp. As my breathless exhilaration drained away and the night breeze began to pick up, a seat by the fire with a blanket tucked around me began to sound luxurious indeed.

It was Tyelkormo who first saw the rider: his hunter's eyes had always been the keenest of any of his brothers. He took a spyglass from one of his saddlebags and peered through it, shading his vision with his free hand. His face brightened at once. "'Tis Haru Finwë!" he announced.

"Atar?" I gasped, and closed at a run the distance between the camp and my father's elegantly trotting horse - half out of eagerness, half to gather some warmth.

Atar reigned in his mount as I reached him. He was as stately as ever, clad in a riding habit of dark red with his hair swept back by a simple circlet that had been one of my first gifts to him.

"I did not expect you to meet us until tomorrow at least!" I laughed, filled with joy beyond explanation. "I thought you would have to set affairs in order with Lord Nólaheru before you left, so we decided to get a head start."

Atar swept down from the saddle with the grace of one well accustomed to making an entrance and drew me into an embrace. "Well, that explains why you frightened me half to death by disappearing without a word! Have you any idea - Curufinwë, why are you soaked to the skin?"

I had forgotten the chill of my wet clothes until now, so pleased was I to see my father. "Oh, I had a foolish race with my sons and I fell in a brook. Please, do not concern yourself."

Atar's eyes narrowed. "You are shivering. You must be cold."

I laughed carelessly, but the sound was shaky enough to be damning. "Just a little."

Atar was plainly not fooled. He undid the golden clasp of his cloak and fastened it about my shoulders. "You ought to take better care of yourself, Curufinwë."

Annoyance flared briefly within me. My father had an irritating habit of treating me like a child.

"I take care enough of myself, thank you," I replied, resisting the urge to wrap my arms tightly about myself and let my teeth chatter.

"Clearly not. You cannot fight me, little one. I always know best."

I rolled my eyes in exasperation and tried not to let him see how grateful I was for his arm around me as I led him back towards the fire.

* * *

><p>My pride yielded to my desire to be warm, and I slept cradled in Atar's arms like a child. At some point during the night, I began to sense a vague sorrow closing in upon me, as a spy who lingers just outside a circle of firelight so as to listen to his enemies without being seen. A wolf's howl split the darkness, and I felt a shadow descend upon me.<p>

"That sound makes me feel sad...and terribly lonely," I murmured. As a child, I had occasionally fallen into such black moods without any explanation. They consumed me so completely that I would lock myself in my room and curl into a ball in a corner, my head pressed to my knees and tears running down my cheeks.

"Peace, Curufinwë," said Atar, a faint note of anxiety in his voice. His arms tightened protectively about me. "You are not alone, and you have no reason to be sad."

The wolf howled again, but this time, another answered it, and my heart lightened a bit.

"Of course not," I said. My voice grew thick as sleep overtook me. "I'm being silly."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<br>**

**Thalieth's name is Sindarin for "stalwart" or "steadfast," explaining Nerdanel's comment about it. Maitimo's interest in her will be explained as the story goes on, and you will see more of her in the near future. Curufin's strange unease at the beginning of the journey will also be explained soon. **

**Fëanor still doesn't know what to think of Fingolfin, does he? That too will be developed soon.**


End file.
